


Par Avion

by Lucifuge5



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Veronica Mars (TV), due South
Genre: Agencyverse, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/pseuds/Lucifuge5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elite Operative Renfield Turnbull is a much respected member of the Agency. However, his dedication to his job has turned his life into a lonely one.</p><p>Coming off a grueling, three-year world tour, Mikey Way is trying to make sense of his life away from My Chemical Romance.</p><p>A chance encounter opens up a whole new world for them.</p><p>Can a spy and a rockstar fall in love amid bullets and meddling bandmates and still make it out alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Par Avion

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings/Spoilers:** Set in the Agencyverse, an AU in which the dS characters are spies. Sequel to [You Zig and Then You Zag](http://archiveofourown.org/works/48739) (though it can be read as a standalone fic too.)
> 
> One half of the characters are real people while the other half are fictional. Mentions of depression and past drug use.
> 
> The timeline begins in late summer of 2008. For _due South_ , I’ve moved everything forward by almost ten years. For Bandom, My Chem’s on hiatus after The Black Parade tour. Other than that, expect tons of handwaviness in regards to canon events.
> 
>  
> 
>  **A/N:** There’s a whole cast of people I have to give snaps to:
> 
> Omens, for her excited “wriiiite it!” when I first mentioned I had a wacky plot bunny hopping inside my head; Akamine_chan, whose encouragement kept me together when I thought I’d lost my way; Exbex, Hazelwho and (once again) Omens, my wonderful First Readers whose feedback gave me a boost at the precise moment I needed it most; My fellow Bangers (we SO rock!), I’ll forever be grateful for your constant pom-pom shaking and support; Ifreet and Tygermine, my incredibly fearless betas, for all the behind-the-scenes work. If there’s anyone to thank for the prettifying of this story is them *g* Any remaining mistakes are solely mine.
> 
> Finally, go check out the gorgeous art that Chibifukurou created for this loopy fic. [Linkage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/234190). :D!

The rain was coming down hard; it didn’t look like it was going to stop any time soon. Cold drops hitting his face, Renfield Turnbull checked his watch as he waited for the light to turn red. 9 PM was still a few minutes away. He had enough time.

His clothes stuck to his body, a soggy and heavy weight. But his pace was quick; the fire of anger giving him the push that he needed as he ran through the deserted streets. Traitor or no, Renfield Turnbull was going to see this whole mess through.

_One way or another._

  


*****

  


**Earlier . . .**

Renfield Turnbull exhaled, straightening out of his half-crouch and enjoying the pull of the stretch on both of his legs. Some minutes later, iPod in hand, he clicked through the files until Jessica Robinson’s sweet tones came out through his earbuds. Nodding in time with the drums, he eased into a mild jog to warm up.

It was early enough that no one else was at the track. This solitude gave him the opportunity to think about the day ahead. There were the Ostrava, Bangladesh and Barranquilla debriefs, the analytical meeting for this week’s Assignments and a conference call with Thatcher about CIS’ having a closer involvement with the Agency. He would be lucky if he had enough time to get something to eat before three.

While occasionally thankful for his everyday routine--morning workout, meeting after meeting after meeting and then catching up on his western novels once home (if he wasn’t too tired)--there were days when he longed to be out in the world. Chasing after Rogues like Fraser, Kowalski and Kennedy did. Or working alongside Smithbauer, Franklin and O’Neil in the Shadow division.

 _Sometimes_ , Renfield thought as he pushed his body into a full out run, _I’m less an Operative than a paper pusher_.

*****

Mikey Way woke up with a start. He had been having that nightmare again--the one where everyone is a pod person intent on killing him. Even though, deep down, he knew it wasn’t real, his heart thumped hard as he remembered the look on Gee’s face before letting go of the trigger: empty and ruthless.

He scratched his head, taking note that he would have to wash his hair at some point, while yawning as wakefulness took hold.

Another day, another hotel room in some no-name city. The tour might have been over as of three months ago, but he was still grooving--"trying to" was more like it--a musician’s nomadic schedule.

Alicia wouldn’t be moving out of their apartment until the end of the month. And the last thing he could deal with at this moment was seeing the disappointment in her face or let the guilt of breaking up their engagement swallow him whole.

Reaching out to turn on his phone--and wasn’t that a sign that he was tethering on the edge of something dark?--he sat up and wondered what was so great about today. He glanced through the texts (fifteen of them, mostly from Pete), emails (Pete, Ray and even Bob) and voicemails (all Gerard’s) before slouching back down. Maybe it was better to stay in bed.

He turned to his side and stared out the window.

*****

Renfield checked his watch for the fifth time and sped up his pace. The analytical meeting was set to begin in ten minutes. Not that Besbriss, the lead analyst in the Statistics division, would give him a hard time if he walked in late. On the other hand, he had heard that Dr. Kuzma might be present this time. And the last thing Renfield would want was to give the doctor any reason to ask him for a sit down session with him. The Doctor’s obsession with punctuality was legendary.

It took some effort, but he made it to the elevators with just enough time to slip into the elevator car without getting caught by the doors. He pressed his right index finger on button marked “C" long enough for it to read his fingerprint. Stepping to the side as soon as the scan was over, he took out his cellphone and checked for any new messages.

There were two people having a low-volume conversation at the opposite end. Renfield flipped through his emails, frowning when he realized not one was from Kowalski.

"I hope everything is OK," a voice said next to him.

Had Renfield not been fully trained, chances were he’d have jumped in a manner unbecoming of an Elite Op. "Pardon?" he asked, turning his head to the side only to find Irene Zuko’s crystal blue eyes staring at him.

"You looked . . . hopeful for a moment," Zuko shifted her gaze upwards for a couple of seconds, "and then crestfallen."

Renfield bit his lip. _Best be careful_ , he thought. Zuko’s aptitude for figuring out what was going on inside someone’s head bordered on spooky. There were rumours of her being groomed to take Quinn’s place as Main Profiler once he retired.

"Smithbauer’s field report is late. Like always," Renfield said, showing the phone to Zuko before closing his email and putting his phone in his pocket. "You would think that everyone in the Elite squad would be more. . ." He fluttered his hand, waiting for Zuko to slide into the conversation.

"Responsible?" she asked as if on cue. "Smithbauer’s ego is rather obvious. It’s one of the reasons why he’s such a good leader."

"Well, obvious or no," Renfield said, "It gets old very quickly."

Zuko tilted her head to the side. It made Renfield think of a dog catching an interesting scent in the air.

Damn.

"It’s no big deal." Renfield shrugged. "I was just--" His jacket pocket began to buzz. "Um, excuse me," he said, taking out his phone and tapping on the screen.

Marked **PRIORITY 5** , the text message read: _Need to talk. Vecchio._

He quickly tapped his reply: _Enroute to meeting. Later?_

A few seconds later, Vecchio replied: _Meeting cancelled for you. My office right now._

Renfield reined in the urge to scowl, sent back an "OK" and pressed the button for the 18th floor. He gave Zuko a quick smile.

"Change of plans, hmm?" she said.

Renfield bought some time by putting his phone away. "Um, yes. Forgot I have a meeting with my boss."

The elevator doors opened and the majority of the people in the car stepped out. His stop was two floors up.

"Well," Zuko said, her eyes warm, "I can tell you that his bark is much worse than his bite."

"Thanks," was all Renfield could say. Half a step out of the car, Zuko took a hold of his arm, keeping him in place with unexpected strength.

"Sorry." She let go of him, leaned to the side and pressed the emergency stop. "It’s just--I know he’ll forget. Could you remind him that if he wants a clean suit for Friday’s meeting, he has to drop off his clothes at the cleaners sometime today?"

Though it wasn’t spoken about, neither Zuko nor Vecchio hid the fact that they were married. He wondered how they had gotten away with it.

Momentarily puzzled by this quick glimpse of domestic life, Renfield nodded and made his way to Vecchio’s office. He heard a faint "thanks!" as the elevator’s doors closed. Straightening his tie, he walked down the short corridor until reaching the door labeled “Head Operative." He knocked and smoothed his jacket out while waiting to be buzzed in.

*****

Mikey just couldn’t find his way back home. Though close, everyone scattered as soon as they finished the last show at Madison Square. Rock stars seeking the comforts of the familiar, chilling out with family, catching up with their individual routines.

He would have wanted to have had that.

Other than his and Alicia’s place in NYC, there was also the property in New Jersey. The empty lot ready for the house that wasn’t going to be built. Staying on the East Coast would’ve meant having to talk to his mom face-to-face and, deep down, Mikey knew he wasn’t ready for that. At least, not yet.

It had been hard enough to hear the tightness in her voice over the phone when he told her about the broken engagement. Gee--who had been with him through all the tense conversations as the tour started to wrap up, the fights, the time he almost slammed his phone against the dressing room door--must have told her what he knew about how things had gone for Mikey. However, he knew she wanted to hear it from him.

His cellphone alarm beeped. He had to call Dr. Allen’s office in ten minutes for his over-the-phone session. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of calling Gerard instead.

Back when Mikey got closer to breaking apart, Gee had been there for him: not only keeping him from shattering into a million pieces like during the Paramour sessions, but making his presence felt, letting Mikey be as needy as he wanted to be. Sometimes, Mikey thought he would suffocate under the weight of his guilt for claiming so much of his older brother’s time. Gee had his own things to deal with. He rubbed the sides of his head.

Had he gotten up earlier, he could have ordered coffee and kept the headache that was gnawing at the edges of his mind far away. He sat up in bed and stretched his legs out. The five minute alarm rang. Mikey fought the temptation of not calling Dr. Allen, of hiding even further away from everyone and everything. Unsmiling, he picked up his phone and pressed 5.

"Good morning, Dr. Allen’s office. This is Marcia speaking."

Mikey coughed. "Um, sorry. This is Mr. Way for Dr. Allen."

"Oh, OK. One moment." Marcia’s voice turned perky.

Soon, Dr. Allen’s almost-soothing voice came on the phone. "Good morning, Michael. How’s the weather?"

" _Shitty_ ," Mikey thought before replying. "I dunno. I haven’t been outside yet."

*****

The stern expression on Vecchio's face made Renfield's stomach tighten up. He used the few seconds between closing the door behind him and taking the seat Vecchio offered to calm down. Dealing with a Priority 5 meant keeping a cool head.

"So tell me, Turnbull, when's the last time you were out in the field?" Vecchio asked, his voice casual, as he shuffled scattered papers into a neat pile.

Renfield straightened up. "Long term or for a single mission?"

"Either."

"The most recent was thirteen months and fifteen days ago. I assisted Francesca in the Easton job."

Vecchio studied his manicured hands. "Decoy, right?"

Renfield nodded. "I introduced Francesca as a former associate of mine to Mr. Connaugh. The success of that Assignment was solely due to Francesca's quick thinking. After all--"

"Yeah, I remember hearing all about it when Frannie came back. She loved pretending to be a cat burglar. You know, there was this one moment I thought she was going to spill it all out to Ma during dinner." Vecchio closed his eyes and shook his head for a couple of seconds.

Regardless of the fact that Vecchio was his boss, Renfield couldn't help feel annoyed by Vecchio's poorly-hidden embarrassment toward his own sister. Of course, having being an only child, Renfield had never understood sibling dynamics. He gave Vecchio some time to regroup by focusing on his grocery list. Maybe the new shipment of Dolcelatte would arrive today just like Mr. Tucci, his grocer, had promised him.

"Anyway," Vecchio said, scratching the fuzzy top of his head before picking out a file out of the stack on his right and throwing it at Renfield, "this is going to be a little bit different."

"What are the preliminaries?" He leaned forward and picked up the dossier.

"Four days ago, a Level-0 Operative by the name of Guy Rankin broke into the First Archive, pocketed the Valhalla database and vanished into the ether."

"What?" Renfield brought his full attention to what Vecchio was telling him. He knew that the information in Valhalla was basic info on the Level 1 and 2’s. He was aware that the data on the Level 3’s and Elite Operatives was in a separate Archive. However, the idea of anyone outside the Agency reading about Operatives sent a wave of nausea through him.

"Well, actually, he snatched the keys and the first part of the database. Once a rogue, always a rogue, I’ve always said." Vecchio shrugged. His tone of voice sparked a wave of recognition in Renfield.

 _Ah, the Victoria incident_ , Renfield thought. It hadn’t mattered that most of the salient points had been kept out of the final debriefs, for those Operatives who had been there the one time Fraser _almost_ went rogue, the nastiness of that situation still smarted.

"Once our man Rankin was on the move, he worked his hardest to turn a nice profit out of it. Yesterday morning," Vecchio said, picking up his pen, "the Agency received an encrypted email in which Warfield offered to sell us Valhalla back for a cool $100 million. Not quite bargain price, but then, Warfield has to be aware of how fast the clock is running. First of all, he doesn’t have all of it. Also, let’s say that it’ll take him about a month to two months to crack it without corrupting the data itself. By that time, Valhalla would be, well, not exactly worthless, but not a hot item either."

"So he sells it back to us. OK." Renfield stared out into space until he was able to fit all the pieces. "But the Agency won't buy it back."

Vecchio's face would have been comical had this been another kind of conversation. "The Agency could pay _many_ times that amount without having to tap outside its liquid assets. But the Agency does not agree with doing this kind of backdoor transaction with scum such as Warfield."

Renfield raised an eyebrow. "I could almost say that’s understandable."

"In any case," Vecchio said as he straightened his tie, "why buy it when we can _steal_ it back?"

*****

Today’s session had been brutal. Mikey rubbed his temples as he pondered on the homework Dr. Allen had given him. Digging deep inside his own psyche had left Mikey wanting to reach out for something to numb him completely. Not that he would go down that road again, at least not willingly, but his mind was filled with white noise.

The beep from his phone startled him. Dr. Allen’s words about "maybe this being the day he could start connecting to the world" ringing in his mind, Mikey swiped his thumb on his cellphone’s screen. There was a new text:

_dude, come over to san fran. Lthmth concert in 2 days. frank._

He took a deep breath and flipped his phone sideways and texted his reply:

_can’t. i’m moping. :(_

Scratching the soft stubble on the underside of his jaw, Mikey placed his phone back on the night table. He smiled at the realization that everyone, except Bob (and that was only because Bob would most probably kill all of them in their sleep if anyone even suggested taking a razor to his blond beard) wouldn’t really go onstage without shaving their faces. Soon as they were done touring, however, it was as if razorblades didn’t exist.

He had gone online late the night before last and could barely believe how scruffy Frank looked on the screen. Mikey had never been able to grow anything past his rad, old school, sideburns. On the other hand, at least his five o’ clock shadow wasn’t as patchy as Gee’s. He read Frank’s comeback:

_only douches mope & ur no lameo. i’ll put u on the list. f._

Had he been home, Mikey could have showed the screen to Bunny Marie and followed that with a Tweet about his "old comrades". Though the impulse to do just _that_ made his fingers itch with anticipation, a larger part of him curled into itself.

As one of his closest friends, Frank must have sensed the hesitation because it was then when he pulled out the big guns:

_besides, you can stop being an idiot and visit gerard._

It had been days (maybe a week?) since he last had any contact with his older brother. Being apart from Gerard physically hurt. It was time to do some reaching out from his side of the court. Mikey sighed. Half-cursing at Frank, he sent a tentative answer:

_i promise to rock out at ur show if u keep ur skanky mostache away from my face._

Frank was fast with his retort:

_you’re making me sad, mikeyway, but I’ll try to be good. will email you the deets tonight._

Feeling a faint spark of satisfaction, Mikey threw his phone on top of his unmade bed. He stood up and stretched his arms toward the ceiling. First a shower and a shave. Then getting some much-needed coffee in his system. Eventually, he’d have to go online for plane tickets and shit.

And, of course, sometime in the next two days, he had to call Gerard.

*****

Renfield closed the file. "Where’s Rankin?"

"He was last seen ordering an ostrich burger at a café in Johannesburg," Vecchio answered. "Laferette and Moore from Containment are on his trail. If I were his friend, I’d wish him all the luck in the world."

"Is the, um, is the Agency sending Rankin to Observation? I mean, after we get him?" Renfield shivered. He had visited the Observation department shortly after getting into the Elite division. Once was more than enough to make an impression.

"Hmm?" Vecchio said. His casual manner didn’t read as laid back as he might have wanted it to. "Who knows, Turnbull. But I’d bet you a plate of my mom’s best gnocchi that Rankin will be begging to be put there once he’s brought home."

Renfield didn’t like the sound of that. But, a part of him understood the Agency’s need to deal in absolutes. "What do you think Warfield’s endgame is?"

Vecchio raised his eyebrows, giving Renfield a "duh" look. "He wants to sell it to the highest bidder. The simplest of all transactions for this kind of material. How is this for interesting: few of our sources offered solid data that the Bolt brothers are ready to outbid anyone _including_ the Agency itself."

"That doesn’t make sense. The Bolts do not have enough resources to do that," Renfield protested.

"So they pooled their monies with every heavy out there or maybe they opened a chain of very successful fast food restaurants. At this point, the Agency isn’t interested on where the Bolts will be getting the capital, but on stopping them.

Everyone in our line of business knows how much of a boon Valhalla is and they all want a piece of that pie. That’s why we need to get in there before this whole thing becomes a bigger mess." Vecchio leaned back, his posture a contrast to the expectation in his gaze. "The Agency believes that you are our best candidate for this."

Renfield frowned. "But there are other--he almost said _better_ \--more active Operatives out there. Like Kowalski. This sounds like something he could do in his sleep. I’m sure Fraser won’t mind having to be his Second this one time."

The way Vecchio twisted his mouth gave Renfield an odd feeling. Vecchio pointed at the stack of files. "Do you mind if I sign a few reports while we talk? I’ve got a meeting with Welsh and Bowman after we’re done here. Welsh will hang me if I don’t give these back to him."

Following a "carry on" hand gesture, Renfield shifted his mind back to the file between his hands. Vecchio’s evasion tactic was too obvious and sloppy for a man of his rank. He could have accepted his colleague’s reluctance--handlers were often sensitive about their current Operatives. However, it _had been_ a while since he’d last seen either one of the "lucky duet". When he next spoke, he kept his tone of voice as even as he could. "I’m sorry Vecchio. You were saying something about Kowalski . . .?"

The squint Vecchio gave him was a hard one. Vecchio sat up and tapped his right ear. "Oh, that," he said as he picked up his pen and began scribbling something on a piece of paper, "he and Fraser are still on extended sabbatical." He slid the paper to the edge of the desk.

Renfield looked at Vecchio once before reading the message:

_K & F – NO RESPONSE. MISSED 1ST PICK-UP._

"I still don’t see why the Agency would appoint me. It’s been over a year since I was last assigned," he said. With Vecchio suspecting--most possibly rightly so--that his office was bugged for audio, Renfield had no other choice but write down his reply:

_RETRIEVAL TEAM ONSITE?_

The last thing he wanted to think was what would happen if Fraser and Kowalski’s new status was listed as "Rogue". Especially after the Muldoon plus Russian submarine victory.

Vecchio glanced at the paper and shook his head side-to-side. "Maybe someone is tired of seeing you sitting at your desk or they hate your tie or they want to see if they can steal your parking spot."

A wave of relief swept through Renfield’s body. "That seems a little petty, don’t you think?" Vecchio’s next message wasn’t too reassuring:

_RE: SENDING RETRIEVAL TEAM. DELAY PER WELSH. FOR NOW._

"The way things are at the moment," Vecchio said, "we can’t pull any of the active Operatives out of their Assignments. Not enough time and too risky."

"I think there are a few on standby. Cortez for example," Renfield said as he jotted down his final message:

_KEEP ME POSTED._

"Yours was the name that was pulled out of the hat, Turnbull." The nod Vecchio gave him calmed Renfield down. He then took the paper and ran it through an ultra-fine shredder.

"I think that you just want to start parking next to Welsh." Renfield tilted his head, trying to find the angle he couldn’t see. Non-active Elites were rarely sent to the field and never for such a delicate Assignment.

Vecchio waved his hands. "Moving on. The Bolts are making their move. They’ve already spoken with Warfield. Two days from now, they are sending someone to meet with Warfield’s representative and make the exchange."

"Are we sure of this?" Turnbull knew things moved fast in the world.

"The Agency seems to think so. We’ve given Warfield the impression that we are considering his offer but complaining about the price tag. He’s impatient, of course. Besbriss’ and her army of nerds are trying to decipher the location and time of the meet."

Renfield bit his lip. "Do we know who Warfield is sending in?"

"Volpe. He’s worked for Warfield long enough to be one of the few in his organization to be trusted with the handing over of Valhalla." Vecchio smirked. "Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: Kowalski would have really been perfect for this mission."

"They always had a rather _simpatico_ ," Renfield added. "It’s too bad Spender can’t go in Kowalski’s place."

Vecchio grunted amusedly. "They do look alike, don’t they?" He waved a hand. "Not that it matters. Besbriss would kill me if we endanger the life of her pet Analyst. Besides, the chances that Volpe will recognize you as an Operative are minimal. We can, however, expect a sniper. Maybe two. This is, after all, the sale of Warfield’s life. He will definitely do anything in his power to stop us from interfering."

"It will definitely be a public place though."

"Uh-huh," Vecchio said. "Nobody involved wants to hang around for too long."

"Who is my Second?" Renfield shifted in his seat. To think that he just that morning he had been complaining about a sedate life.

"Eric will be there as your shadow. He will be well hidden so as to not spook Volpe and whoever the Bolts are sending in. Other than that, you’ll be blind," Vecchio said, an apologetic expression on his face. "Warfield’s psych profile indicates a superiority complex with a sprinkling or two of paranoia."

"So he might be monitoring electronic activities. Got it." Renfield didn’t let his shoulders slump no matter how much he wanted to.

"You can use your comm device in case of an emergency though the Agency hopes that won’t happen. We will definitely have more information by tomorrow morning," Vecchio continued. "You know, exact location, that sort of thing. So, let’s walk through a few scenarios for now. Hopefully we won’t be wrong in believing that we can prevent the unpreventable." Vecchio leaned forward. "Because, whatever happens, Turnbull, the Bolt brothers _cannot_ end up with their grubby paws on any part of Valhalla."

Renfield agreed. "I’ll wait for instructions," he said, getting up in one swift movement.

"Yeah," Vecchio replied, flipping open a new file, "don’t stray too far."

"I’ll be around," Renfield said. He was almost at the door when he turned around. "By the way, Vecchio, remember to take your clothes to the cleaners today."

Vecchio looked up, his face cool and expressionless. "Thanks for reminding me," he grumbled and then he went back to his papers.

"You’re welcome," Renfield answered, inwardly impressed at Vecchio’s demeanor. He stepped out of the office and started walking to the Medical wing.

*****

Following a shower and a quick shave, Mikey got ready to pick up some much needed fuel ( _coffee_ ). His reflection on the mirror made him think of college student. Dressed in once-black-now-faded-to-gray jeans, his Converse and a simple dark green t-shirt, he slipped his sunglasses on and stepped out of his room, the surety of not being recognized bringing him a small measure of peace. He nodded hello at the door person and let the street noise run through his head as he walked to the coffeehouse two blocks away.

The faint notes of _Velouria_ , Gerard's specific ringtone, filtered through the right pocket of his jeans when he was getting his coffee. Rather than answer it, Mikey paid the barista and took a quick stroll. He needed some caffeine in the system and a few bites of his cinnamon bun before he could reconnect with his older brother.

He let his feet take him wherever they wanted. For once, Mikey didn't fear getting lost in a city.

Some minutes later, he found himself making his way through the entrance to a small park. Sitting on a bench that faced a large pond, Mikey alternated sips of his coffee with bites of his pastry, his mind wandering on how he'd ended up somewhere smack in the middle of the U.S.

His focus drifted to the past, to the small and quiet moments with Alicia. He leaned against the back of the bench, feeling a drawn-out pang of sadness. Getting married to Alicia could have been his life. Happiness on a low-hum. And yet, at the same time, he knew that it wouldn't have been fair to anyone, most of all himself. Not when he wasn’t sure about things. He drained the rest of the cup in one long drink.

It was startling to feel the slight tremor in his hands as he dialed Gerard's home number. After all, they were brothers. The long beep made him feel his heart sink. Rather than hang up, he stayed on the line, waiting for the answering machine. He'd leave a message now and try again some hours later.

A loud click snapped him to full alertness.

"Hello?"

Mikey closed his eyes and smiled at the soft tone of Gerard's voice. "It's me," was all he could say.

"Hey," Gerard answered softly. "How’ve you been?"

For a moment, Mikey drank in everything that was behind those words. He could feel the edges of worry and the questions and, to a lesser degree, the hurt at being kept at arms' length. Mikey held the phone with his right ear and shoulder as he broke pieces from his leftover breakfast and threw them at the ducks. "Here and not here."

"But all in one piece, right? I've been worried and barely able to keep Mom from releasing the bloodhounds."

Mikey winced more at Gerard's words that how tentative his voice was. "I-I just needed some time away."

Gerard sighed. "Which isn't good, Mikes. Not when it goes on for as long as it has. Not the part where you cut yourself off from everyone. I--I’d thought you were going to stay in NYC, after the tour, recharge your batteries"

"No!" Mikey answered, instantly regretting how brusque he’d sounded. "That, um, that would’ve been a mistake. My apartment and Ali . . . I mean, there’s a lot of stuff to go through. It's not time for that yet." He tilted his face towards the sun, the warmth helped calming him down.

"You didn't have to go to your apartment if you didn’t want to. Well, you ended up not going there anyways. Um, where are you now?"

"Downtown Oklahoma, I think?" He picked at a tiny rip on his pants. How many pairs of jeans had he gone through in the past year? Probably far less than Frank. "So, Frank texted me this morning--"

"Yeah, he told me he would. I mean, last time he was over here. Any thoughts?" Gerard hummed quietly. Mikey could almost see him doodling on the nearest piece of paper.

Mikey held on to the hopeful tone in Gerard’s question. "It looks like I'm going to a Leathermouth concert. Erm, the one in San Francisco . . ."

"OK?" Gerard got quiet on his end. Mikey could hear him breathing.

"So, um, I was wondering if you'd be up to seeing your little bro--"

Gerard snorted. "Idiot. You know you're always welcomed over here."

Mikey exhaled with relief. He knew Gerard wouldn’t say no--it had been too long since they had last hung out--but he would have flinched if his brother had hesitated on his invitation.

There was a rustling of papers followed by a quiet pop. "All right, Mikes, when are you going to be in San Francisco?"

"Concert is this Wednesday," Mikey answered, distracted by the idea that he could swing by the coffee shop and get a second cup of coffee on his way back to the hotel. "So, I could, like, fly to L.A. the following day."

"OK, OK. Hold on, I'm scribbling this shit down. It'll be good to see you, Mikey. Just wait til you see Frankie going nutso with Leathermouth."

"Yeah, Gee." He yawned. "I’ll send you my info about the flight. Gotta go now. You know, pack up and shit."

"Make sure to leave all those unicorn stuffed animals you picked up in Seoul behind. Or be ready for the possibility that they might end up without their heads when you get here."

Mikey tutted exaggeratedly. "Always the hater, Gerard. One would think you have no heart for creatures that aren’t monsters."

"Just watching out for your reputation, Mikes," Gerard answered. "See you in a few days then."

"’kay. Bye, Gee. Love you."

"Love you too, Mikey."

Mikey hung up. His body felt lighter, less compressed, when he put the phone back in the front pocket of his jeans.

*****

Some people feared going to the doctor, getting pricked and prodded and having to answer all sorts of potentially embarrassing questions about what they had or hadn't been doing since they last physical. Renfield didn’t have the luxury to be afraid. Not if he wanted to complete the Assignment successfully.

It had been a day and a half of tests including endurance, a full physical and a couple of vaccinations. Though thankful that he wasn't going to travel outside of the US, he couldn't help grimacing inside if his Assignment had taken him elsewhere.

Once the physical exam done, Renfield took a seat across the desk in Mort's office. Placing his jacket over his lap, he waited patiently as the doctor finished reviewing his findings.

"So," Mort said after he finished scribbling something on his file, "according to the exam, you are in the best shape possible." He tilted his head down and looked at Renfield over his thick glasses, "I'm not so confident about your cholesterol levels, young man. Eating all that cheese might end up being more harmful than not." Mort straightened up and winked at him. "But we must all indulge while we can." He closed the file and grinned at Renfield. "You've been approved for this mission, Mr. Turnbull. I hope the fresh air will do you some good."

"Thank you, Doctor," Renfield said before he stood up and shook hands with Mort. "I'm looking forward to stretching my legs."

Mort nodded for a couple of seconds. He fixed his eyes on Renfield, turning serious with every beat. "Off the record, Turnbull, let me give you a piece of advice."

"Yes?"

Mort gave Renfield a level-gaze. "We are in the business of keeping the world safe from darkness and, oftentimes, that means that we get lost in our jobs. Neither time nor life waits for anyone, young man. It'd be wise for you to take a risk now and then. One that is not involved with working for the Agency."

Renfield gave Mort a quick frown. "I--I know what you are saying, Doctor. Thank you for everything." He practically stumbled out of Medical, his mind a little jumbled at Mort's words. Stopping by a water cooler to clear his head, he decided to check in with Besbriss. Between the higher-than-normal sensitive nature of this particular Assignment and his own nervousness at being back on the field, Renfield had to be prepared for anything.

One of the informal lessons Renfield took to heart as soon as he was recruited into the Agency fifteen years before was "you had to know all of the angles before going out in a mission. Even those that were hidden."

Checking his watch, Renfield whispered a soft curse when he saw it was ten minutes to nine P.M. He grabbed his phone and texted Besbriss:

Besbriss’ reply was fast:

_Sorry to disappoint you, Turnbull, but I don’t live in my lab. Could meet w/you tomorrow though._

Renfield sighed with disappointment. He knew he could ask her to come back to the Agency and that she wouldn’t hesitate in doing that. But downtime was precious. He started and erased his reply a few times before sending it:

_How about ten?_

Besbriss texted him back within seconds:

_OK, I should be back in my lab around that time (I have an early meeting with St. Laurent. Brrr!). See you tomorrow. :)_

Satisfied with the prospect of obtaining some more information, Renfield put his phone in his pocket. He rubbed his eyes, blatantly yawning in the empty corridor. It was time to go home.

*****

Two days and several states later, Mikey walked into a non-descript club in San Francisco. He was wearing his black jeans and a black t-shirt. For a moment right before he left his hotel room, he toyed with the idea of wearing some eyeliner, maybe look a little slutty. He was in San Francisco and, for one reason or another, something about being in one of the world's most famous destinations for all things queer gave him an itch he looked forward to scratching. But then, he was there to hang out with his friend. The eyeliner could wait for another time.

There were a few people smoking outside the club. Mikey checked his watch. The show had already started. He jerked his head at the bouncer. "Mikey Way," he said.

The bouncer, a beefy man in a black, spandex t-shirt and jeans, looked him over before consulting his list. "ID?"

Mikey raised an eyebrow and took out his wallet, handing over his driver's license. It was expired, but what the hell.

Mr. Beefy took his license and stared at it, like he was going to be tested later.

The door opened, loud, fast music pouring out as a young Hispanic guy in a red, short-sleeved shirt and black jeans walked out. Mikey let his gaze wander as he took in the guy's tattoos (a full sleeve on each arm) and ducktail hairdo. He felt his mouth curl up into a side smile, almost without being really aware of it.

Ducktail stared back as he took out his cellphone and started to dial. He raised his eyebrow at Mikey before turning around and walking across the street.

"Here you go," the bouncer said, giving Mikey his license back. He then took a neon green wristband and closed it around Mikey's right wrist. "No cover for you, then, Mr. Rockstar."

Mikey mumbled thanks, face feeling hot at being momentarily recognized, before he stepped inside the club. The place was packed. It was an uneven mix of old punks, young punks, men and women and, most possibly, more than a handful of My Chem fans. It still amused Mikey to see Frank's surprise at Leathermouth's popularity.

The air was thick with the smell of sweat. Mikey made his way to the bar and ordered a bottle of water. Years of touring with Frank told him that his friend would be warming up, possibly doing jumping jacks or something equally as active. He decided to check in on him after the show. Best not to distract him. Leaning against the part of the bar that was the furthest from the mosh pit, Mikey sipped his water, letting the rat-a-tat of the opening band’s songs go through him. The overall vibe carried with it all kinds of promise. Mikey was curious to see where the night would end.

*****

The day had begun overcast. Renfield flicked his eyes away from the windows. He walked through the doors marked _Statistics_ only to bump into Bruce Spender himself. In spite of how he wore his hair combed down and his gawky demeanor, Spender could have been Kowalski’s younger brother.

"There are 245 steps from this point to anywhere in this room," Spender said absentmindedly at the same time he bent a sheet of paper into some unrecognizable shape.

"Oh? I’ve never counted them," Renfield replied, waiting for Besbriss to get off the phone.

"All the rooms on this level have the same point of equidistance."

"What about the other floors?" Renfield asked, humoring Spender. Besbriss placed her receiver down and waved a ‘come here’ at him. "Ah, excuse me, Spender. I must have talk to your boss."

Spender undid the paper and began to make a new one.

Elaine Besbriss, Renfield noticed, seemed to perk up when she looked at him. He couldn’t help but feel worried about that.

"Morning," she said as Renfield came up to her. "So I’m guessing Vecchio already had his little pow-wow with you, right?"

Renfield kept his expression serious. He shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Besbriss was in on what was going on. As the head of the Statistics team, Besbriss would’ve been briefed on all things Valhalla-related. "We’ve sat down; I now have an Assignment. If that’s what you’re asking."

"So you’re here for?" Her smile turned flirtatious.

It was always a surprise when Besbriss teased him. Her interest (real or imaginary) on him was quite unexpected, actually. And yet, here they were.

"I’m curious, that’s all. How _did_ he do it?" Renfield’s tone wasn’t as cold as it could have been--there wasn’t any need to be rude. Oblivious or no, Besbriss was a good person.

If she noticed his reticence to ‘play along’ as the modern parlance went, she ignored it. "Ah, that’ll cost you a cup of coffee and one of the cafeteria’s best Danish pastries."

Renfield studied his watch. At this point, the only way his rescheduled call with Thatcher was going to happen would be if he could get to his office in 1 minute. He hoped that Thatcher wouldn’t see this as an insult made towards the RCMP. "OK, Besbriss, lead the way," he said, before he took his cellphone and typed a quick email to Thatcher written in his most diplomatic tone.

*****

Leathermouth took the stage dressed head to toe in white. _Funny to see Frank embrace the total opposite of what we wore during the Black Parade_ , Mikey thought as he took in the snow white clothing Frank and his band wore.

Most of the people rushed to the front as Frank and his band started to play their hardcore hearts out. Fans were screaming to the top of their lungs, the higher pitches breaking through the guitars and the surrounding noise. It was Frank, however, the one who roared the _loudest_.

Mikey looked on, captivated by seeing Frank turn himself inside out. While it was true that Frank had always given it his all with My Chem, this was a whole ‘nother side to his best friend.

Feeling equal parts of pride (he hadn't understood, at first, how much Frank had needed this wholly different outlet from My Chem) and amusement (the crowd kept grabbing Frank in ways that would have driven Gerard _crazy_ ), Mikey drank the whole scene in. Frank kept the banter to a minimum, opting instead to throw himself against anyone and everyone, tearing into one song after another, sweaty and full of crazed energy.

Surprisingly, Leathermouth's set finished rather quickly. By the end, everyone was a mess, Frank the dirtiest one. The band left the stage with Frank returning to do guitar duties for the next band after changing his now-filthy white t-shirt for a black one. By that time, Mikey had made his way somewhat closer to the left side of the stage.

He waited until stepping into one of the lights to wave at Frank. His friend winked back, goofy smile plastered on his face. Mikey smirked back. Frank's ugly mustache had only gotten uglier.

*****

Two cups of good coffee and a not-so-fresh Danish later, Besbriss and Renfield were sitting by one of the large windows. The trees outside, their leaves golden pointed by the rays of the late afternoon sun, appeared to be standing guard against unseen enemies. Though he could never imagine stopping feeling homesick for the scenery in Regina or the way Toronto looked in early autumn, Renfield enjoyed the landscape that surrounded the Agency. He could almost forget that he was in Magnolia Creek.

Crossing his fingers and resting his chin on his hands, he waited for Besbriss to give him some answers. "So, I take it we have figured out how it was done?"

Besbriss put her tablet on the bar and turned it on. "OK, as you know, Rankin didn’t go into the Archives. Well, not, you know, _physically_. Too many key codes and monitoring for anyone to make it in and out without getting caught."

"And yet he did it."

"Yup, he did." Besbriss nodded as she started to sketch a simple floor plan. "But that was only because someone, thankfully no one in _my_ department, forgot about the auxiliary vents that have, at best, a flimsy motion sensor or two. So, Rankin didn’t walk through the door. He was smarter than that." She flipped the tablet upside down and traced a route with her stylus. "Instead, he slid right on top of the room."

Renfield was sure his facial expression was one of bewilderment. Rankin’s plan was so simple. "That was clever."

"Maybe _too_ clever?" Besbriss tapped her stylus on the border of the tablet.

"Who knows." Renfield glanced at the trees one last time as he turned his focus back on what Rankin had done. "What happened after he got inside the auxiliary vent?"

"Well, he did all but hang upside down like Spider-man and wait the six to ten minutes that it took for Valhalla to be downloaded." Besbriss shrugged her left shoulder. "Well, not all of it, thank God. Just enough to cause trouble. And then, he slipped outside and poofed into the thin air with a very hot ticket to untold riches inside one of his pockets."

"All right, so that means that during the trade-off, I’m actually looking for . . .?"

Besbriss turned the tablet off and sipped some coffee before answering. "I’m thinking something portable. An everyday object that won’t arouse any suspicions."

"Like a paperback novel?"

"No," Besbriss answered. "Smaller than that. A cellphone maybe? I mean, we are talking about ten TB of data here."

"Right." Renfield slid his left hand over his chin. The more he learned about this new Assignment, the more he wondered why he’d been picked for it. This was definitely what was known in the business as a ‘toughie’.

*****

It was close to midnight by the time the show was over. Shortly after, Mikey was sitting in what passed for the green room in the small club. Random people, band members and the occasional fans were everywhere. At one point, the bulk of people spilled out into the hallway.

He slapped his right hand against Frank's. "Dude, great show!"

"I'm so happy you came, man," Frank said, scratching his stubble.

"Thanks for inviting me, dude. You guys sound tight." Mikey stared at Frank, his mind taking him back to the early, Frank-in Pencey-Prep days, back when he worked for Eyeball Records, the ghost of a smile on his mouth. Back then, Gerard had given him a puzzled look when Mikey told him about the up-and-coming band.

"Yeah? Awesome!" Frank screwed up his face for a second or two, the extra scruff making him look goofier than usual, and punched Mikey back. "Loud and ferocious, that's Leathermouth for you!"

Mikey couldn't help snorting after hearing Franks giggle. He had missed this, no matter that he had spent over three years non-stop going all over the world in cramped buses and shitty airplanes with his friend. "Gee told me I shouldn’t miss it."

Frank sucked his teeth. "And to think that I didn’t have to guilt-text him like I did with you, huh?" He grabbed a beer someone brought him and took a long sip before continuing. "You should’ve seen him trying to navigate the mosh pit. I thought he was going to pass out."

"Gee and hardcore punk mosh pits is like," Mikey smirked, "peanut butter and jelly beans."

"Surprisingly delicious, yeah." Frank winked before finishing his beer. "He was super hyper after the L.A. show. I think he might have been brainstorming."

"For what? The concept for My Chem’s next album?" Mikey pulled a face. Gerard’s enthusiasm could stand on the edge of intense whenever he was inspired.

"Dunno. Hopefully whatever he comes up with means we’ll be wearing comfortable threads. I mean, other than Bob, he was the one to complain the loudest about how hot the Parade outfits were," Frank answered before turning his head away and burping loudly.

"Don’t forget itchy. And, ugh, all that makeup." Mikey buried his head on his hands. "I still have the occasional nightmare about that."

Frank placed a hand on Mikey’s back. "Listen, next time your brother has another one of his ‘brilliant’ ideas, how about we make sure to think them through instead of getting carried away by his passion for fashion?"

Mikey nodded before raising his head. "My brother, the deranged pied piper of rock."

Mikey and Frank looked at each other for a beat before shaking their heads in unison. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed so much he was left gasping for air.

*****

The _tete-a-tete_ with Besbriss left Renfield’s mind spinning. How had Rankin thought of stealing Valhalla? As a Level 0, he wouldn’t have had access to the more sensitive parts of the Archives. He wouldn’t even _know_ they existed.

Renfield’s stomach flipped. Though he didn’t want to, the logical pattern pointed at the probability of a mole in the Agency. He typed up a couple of encrypted notes in his cellphone to follow through once he was back from the Assignment.

He met Eric outside the East Wing.

"We're on-call as of 19:00 hours, Renfield," Eric said in lieu of saying hello.

Renfield opted, for once, not to soften his disapproval at being addressed in such an informal manner. "I'm the lead Operative, Eric, and I--"

"And I am the best there is to back you up," Eric interrupted as they began walking towards the Armory. He opened the main door and stepped to the side. "At least, Vecchio seems to think so."

"Being overly confident, Eric," Renfield said coolly, "could be part of the reason why The Agency has never deemed it a priority to make you Elite."

Eric quirked an eyebrow. "But that doesn't mean that I've never taken a bite out of Elite Agents."

"Careful," Renfield suggested. Though inwardly amused, in part by the memories of the few moments he and Eric had spent in bed some years back, Renfield decided to derail that conversation. "The Agency might turn a blind eye regarding certain incidents, but that doesn't mean we have to kick the wasp's nest."

"Whatever you say, old man." Eric shrugged. "Besides, no harm on a little verbal _mano a mano_. It's been, what? Four years since we last went out in the field?"

Rather than answer, Renfield walked up to the desk. "Good evening, Colling,"

Many in the Agency felt some kind of apprehension towards Herb Colling, the main Armorer. Renfield could still remember the stories he had heard from his Agents about Colling. Kowalski had once called him "old school" to his face which, for some unknown reason, had amused Colling to no end.

Colling closed and locked the door behind him before addressing the two men. "Turnbull, Junior. What will you need tonight?"

"I'll take a Mosquito," Eric said as he walked towards the sword display on the right side of the room.

Renfield cleared his throat. "A P225 for me, Colling."

A short nod was all Colling gave them before preparing the sign-out forms.

"You're _so_ Canadian," Eric said, leaning close enough to the glass to fog it up.

Renfield was about to protest when Eric continued. "Hey, Colling, is there any particular reason why you keep swords here? I mean, we’re in the 21st Century, man."

Colling finished typing. "Sign here," he said as he placed the thumbprint scanner in front of Renfield. He leaned to the side. "Young man, it's important to see where we've been to figure out where we're going. In my day, a baseball bat was all you needed to bring someone down."

Eric held up his hand. "OK, OK. Take it easy." He walked next to where Renfield was and pressed his thumb against the scanner.

Serious faced, Colling grunted before typing up the alarm code to where most of the weapons were actually held. "I'll be back with your Sigs and ammo," he said with an irritated tone. "Keep junior Operative over there away from my swords or I'll hack him to pieces when I come back."

Renfield gave Eric a pointed "keep quiet" look once Colling had left. He then took out his cellphone and checked his agenda for the next day. Like it or no, he had to clear as much of his schedule in case they had to go at a moment’s notice.

*****

Rather than keeping Frank all to himself, Mikey hung in the background, close enough to be able to feel the heat and get a whiff of Frank's sweat-cigarette smell.

He smiled when jokes were told by the lead singer of the last band (who, for a reason only known to himself, was wearing something that looked like pink leggings) and elbowed Frank when a couple of My Chem fans asked for both their autographs. Feeling slightly embarrassed at first, Mikey let the general camaraderie bring him a measure of comfort.

Little by little, people started to pack up and leave. Frank had finished his umpteenth cigarette by the time he landed a soft punch on Mikey's left shoulder. "So, where are you staying, Mikeyway?"

Mikeyway raised an eyebrow. "Why? You looking to crash somewhere? 'cause usually I like to sleep solo in a double bed."

Frank fluttered his eyes for a few seconds in mock surprise. "Nah, man. I just need a place to shower and I wouldn't mind spending some time catching up with you over some tasty late night pizza. What do you say?"

"I'm staying at the W."

"Ohh, check out Mr. Fancy-pants." Frank’s grin grew wider.

*****

Renfield and Eric were checking their guns when both of their cellphones went off. They answered almost at once.

"Turnbull here."

"This is Levon, Operative. Vecchio says to come up to the blue room."

"We'll be there in a few minutes. We're only one floor below you guys." He clicked the phone off. "Let's go, Eric," he said, checking that the safety was on before sliding his gun in his shoulder holster.

"Looks like we're on," Eric answered as he waved good-bye at a stone-faced Colling.  


*****

"You sure you want to risk sharing a small enclosed space, dude?" Frank scratched his beard. "I'm grimy enough to raise the undead," he said.

Mikey shrugged. "Since when are you afraid my delicate nose won’t be able to take your stinkiness? Have you forgotten the many times we’ve stank to high heaven whether in a bus, a van or an airplane? Does the word Helsinki ring any bells?"

"Huh," Frank said, "yeah, that part of the tour was brutal." He shook his head. "I know that Dewees got a room over at some hotel, but I'm thinking it'll be more party-times than minimizing the stink levels, you know?" Frank leaned over and bumped shoulders with Mikey.

"You guys leaving San Fran soon, right?"

Frank stared out into space for a beat. "Mid-morning tomorrow." He squinted at Mikey. "I think? We're playing some city in Nevada tomorrow night."

"Let’s cab it to my hotel then. You can wash up, we can hang and shoot the shit til bedtime."

"And then we can braid each other's hair while we talk about the cute boys?"

Mikey stared at Frank, at his sure to be rough stubble, icky mustache and short hair. For a happily married--to a woman--dude, Frank was still an irrepressible flirt. A snort escaped him. "Sure thing. I'll even make sure to respect your virtue. And not only because I know Jamia would kick my ass otherwise."

"Awesome!" Frank said, jumping off the couch, like a sugared-up twelve-year old. "Let me pick up my bag from the bus?"

"Yeah, I'll meet you outside," Mikey answered, getting up somewhat slower. He took out his cellphone and flipped through Google for a nearby pizza place. The likelihood of many choices being open by the time they got back to his hotel was pretty much zero.

And, no matter how skinny (lean, Alicia used to say without hiding much of her awe about it) he was, Mikey could eat a pizza pie all by himself.

He walked out of the green room and through the club's front door. Jerking his chin at Mr. Bouncer, he kept walking until he was close to the side of the building. He had been typing a reply to Bob's email when a noise startled him. Leaning over the corner, he saw two figures far enough from him to be partially hidden in shadow. One of the pair was on his knees. Squinting hard, Mikey quickly pulled back when he realized that he'd been staring at two men. His heart raced at the same time that a low heat pooled in his groin. Looking but not looking at the empty street in front of him, feeling that yearning to be either of the men mixed in with the minor wave of embarrassment-excitement, he jumped when someone's hand closed on his shoulder.

"Mikey, man, no more coffee for you tonight," Frank said, side smile softening the tease.

Mikey rubbed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to focus on the unsexiest things he could think of: Mrs. Green, his fourth grade teacher; baby carriages; the time tables. Anything, really, to relax the half-hardness that was threatening to become something more substantial.

"Whatever, Frank. I was, um, spacing out." He looked back at Frank with the blandest of his expressions. "Just hungry. That's all."

"Aw, Mikes. I'd kill for some food. You think we can--"

"Already thought of that," Mikey said, waving his cellphone in front of Frank, "we can get some take out at this Italian place two blocks away and then, cab it?"

Frank gave him thumbs up. "Sounds like a delicious _and_ practical plan." His expression became one of confusion. "When did you start to get all organized and shit? Like, are you the same Mikeyway who showered with a space heater perched on the bathtub? Or, are you a Mikeyway clone getting ready to invade Planet Earth? Huh? Huh? Come on, you can tell Frankie." At this, Frank started to poke him in the stomach.

Mikey swatted Frank’s hand away. "It's all about thinking about what I have to do in order to get what I need." They started walking.

"That sounded almost Yoda-like, Mikey. I'm impressed," Frank said, his left hand landing on the back of Mikey's neck and squeezing it.

 _It’s the magic of working at figuring out who I am. Better living through therapy,_ Mikey thought when Frank let go of him.

"Well, whatever it is, I'm happy for you." Frank searched his pocket and produced a lighter. He placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it in almost one easy movement.

A lump started to tighten in Mikey's throat. Up until that moment, he hadn't realized how much he had _needed_ to hear that. He grunted and kept walking.

*****

Renfield made sure to get on one of the seats that weren't facing the door or the window. Eric sat next to him. _Smart boy_ , he thought before shifting his attention to Vecchio.

"Change of plans, boys and girls. The exchange is going to happen tomorrow," Vecchio said. "Luckily, we've got a time and a place." Vecchio sat in front of his laptop. A large map came on the main screen. "Every piece of data, mojo and brainpower from Statistics tell us that Volpe is going to meet the Bolts’ rep at El Taco Loco in Los Angeles, CA." The map changed into a photograph of a Mexican restaurant situated on the southeast corner of a busy intersection.

Renfield heard Eric's annoyed groan. He shot him a disapproving look. Not that Vecchio, Levon or Cortez could’ve missed Eric’s complain.

"Yup, that's right, Eric. This is _the_ worst place possible," he said. "The location is too open, the surrounding area is too hectic and there are very few entry points. One positive though: the likelihood of a sniper hiding has dropped considerably. We already have teams Gamma and Delta positioned at the only two locations Warfield or the Bolts' possible marksmen could use.

Turnbull and Eric, you'll be team Alpha at the location. Levon and Cortez will be team Beta, in a car just around the corner. None of you have done any high profile Assignments lately, so we believe that everything will run as smooth as a shave at Gino’s Barbershop in Chicago. Your phones will be updated any minute now." Vecchio snapped his laptop shut. "Remember: all the Agency wants back is what belongs to it."

Renfield tried to shake off his nerves, but his stomach had tied itself up as soon as he walked out of the room.

The window for the trade was sometime in the very late part of the afternoon. Anyone in the business knew that things went smoothly when they happened around the end of rush hour. Civilians would be too preoccupied with heading home or having dinner to pay attention to what was happening around them.

Renfield studied maps and read the dossier on Volpe--with added notes written in _Kowalski’s_ angry scrawl--on the flight to Los Angeles.

*****

For such a short flight, not even an hour and a half, the trip from San Francisco to Los Angeles was too bumpy for Mikey’s liking. He listened to all of Lush’s albums on repeat from the time he waved good-bye to Frank in front of Leathermouth’s tour bus through his plane’s arrival at LAX. Catching the first cab as soon as he stepped out of the airport, he mumbled Gerard’s address and tried to keep himself from panicking.

Nearly 40 minutes later, the taxi stopped at the front gate. Mikey bit the inside of his mouth, wondering how good of an idea this was.

"That'll be $48," the driver said without turning around.

"Uh, yeah, hold on a second," Mikey answered, taking out his wallet and handing over the cab fare plus a little more for tips. "Here you go." He picked up his duffel bag and slid across the seat, opening the door. The sun had begun to dip into the horizon, lazily, like it wanted to hang around for just a little bit longer. Mikey tried to swallow around the lump in his throat before pressing the intercom button.

Gerard's voice sounded rough. "Hello?"

"I'm outside. Let me in," Mikey answered. He waited for the buzz, holding on to his bag over his right shoulder like the anchor it shouldn’t be. The gates opened. He slipped through them, making his way to the front door by which his brother was standing, in black sweatpants and a paint-splattered t-shirt that had been white many months ago, with the sappiest grin on his face.

"Mikey," Gerard said in a raspy voice, like he’d been worried about ever seeing his little brother again. Gerard’s arms squeezed him hard and he relished every second of it.

Letting go of his big brother, Mikey held Gerard at arms’ length. His gaze flickered over the disheveled hair (not an anomaly), the patchy stubble (ditto) and the way Gerard appeared to be glowing with happiness. If Mikey felt a pang of envy at seeing how being married and a soon-to-be-a-parent had loosened that tight knot of hurt inside Gerard, he chose to overlook it.

"Gee," he said, dropping his arms at last and walking back to where he had dropped his bag. Picking it up without much effort, he caught up with Gerard, wrapping an arm around his brother’s shoulders and walked through the foyer together. "So, where’s Lindsey?"

Gerard grabbed Mikey’s bag and kept walking towards the bedrooms. Mikey followed him.

"Dude, she’s been at the Michael’s store that’s on Wall Street for the past," Gerard glanced at his watch, "two hours. Who knows if we’ll ever see her again."

"Man, I’m missing out on both hanging out with my favorite sister-in-law _and_ a trip to the craft store?" Mikey huffed in annoyance, watching as Gerard threw his bag inside the guest bedroom.

"Yeah, well, I think she’s working on a couple of pieces right now. So, I’m sure the two of you will drag me back to that same store tomorrow." Gerard pouted looking all of five years old as he closed the door behind him and walked back to the living room.

"I guess," Mikey said, a few steps behind him. His stomach growled unexpectedly. "Um, don’t mind me being all lame and shit, Gee, but I’m starving, man!"

"Just had coffee on the plane, huh?" Gerard asked, giving Mikey a side smile. "Luckily," he said, eyes lighting up, "you’re just in time to enjoy the _best_ Burrito in all of the US of A. Now, where did I leave . . . ?"

Gerard twisted around, looking like someone who had either had just gotten possessed or had a nervous body spasm. "Aha!" he cried, walking to a small table. He picked up his keys and waving them at Mikey. "C’mon, you can make fun of the way I drive my Mini on the way to getting some _great_ Mexican food."

"Let me use the bathroom first, yeah?" Mikey said, waiting for a now-eager-to-get-going Gerard to give him directions.

"First door on your right over there," Gerard said, taking out his phone. "I’m Tweeting this for sure."

Mikey shook his head. Some days, he thought that his brother was a bigger Twitter fiend than he was.

*****

Renfield dropped Eric off a block away from the restaurant. He didn't know how his Second was going to be able to give him back up without revealing himself (although Renfield had yet to meet anyone with more aptitude for Shadow work than Eric in all his years in the Agency). He eased into El Taco Loco’s parking lot, turned the engine off, waiting until he’d finished checking out his surroundings to step out of the car. Soon, the smell of food reached his nose. His stomach grumbled in protest.

He kept his steps loose, softening his expression into one that could be read as "hapless tourist searching for 'authentic' Mexican food".

A fast-paced Spanish song was playing from a boom box by the bar. Two young men were sitting all the way in the back, digging into their meal with gusto. A teenage couple shared a flan. Renfield smiled at the waitress. " _Comida Mexicana, si?_ " he asked making sure his Spanish accent sounded thicker than it normally did.

" _Aqui tiene_ ," the waitress answered with a smile of her own, handing over a menu after leading him to a table by the south wall.

Renfield had almost made up his mind when the door opened and in walked none other than Volpe. Dressed head to toe in black, including his leather jacket, he looked every part the gangster.

Volpe, Renfield observed, looked good. Menacing without too much of a rough edge, obvious about his cockiness; it was difficult to ignore him.

Happy to have a better-than-expected vantage point, Renfield signaled to the young woman. Rather than talking, the place was small enough already and the last thing he wanted was to get noticed, he pointed at what by his calculations had to be the quickest appetizer.

" _Muy bien_ ," she said. She jotted down his order and walked up to Volpe's table. She hadn't even finished offering the menu when Volpe, who was facing the front door, shook his head. " _Una Dos Equis_ ," he said somewhat brusquely.

Renfield saw the quick once over the waitress gave Volpe before heading to the bar.

A few minutes later, there was a plate of organic nachos with cheddar cheese and chipotle sauce in front of Renfield. He snagged a nacho, trying to muffle the crunch as he bit on it. Even though there was no way Volpe could see him, Renfield didn't want to take any chances.

He enjoyed the tingle of the sauce's piquancy, smoothing it out with a couple of sips from his Pepsi. Sticking to his "I'm inoffensive vibe," he took a city guidebook and pretended to read it.

Four tables in front of him, Volpe was fiddling with his cellphone as he drank his beer.

Renfield's plate was nearly empty when the doorbell jingled. A short woman, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and light blue jeans, practically swaggered into the restaurant. Her dark blond hair, cut short in a manner that suggested practicality over style, offered a nice contrast to her delicate features. After staring for what felt like minutes, Renfield couldn’t keep himself from widening his eyes in surprise as soon as he realized _who_ the woman was.

Though he was sure he looked calm on the outside, his heart began a quasi-staccato that made him dizzy for a moment or two. He started to plan alternate ideas as he searched his pockets for his comm device.

It was difficult not to crush the small, button-like device in his right fist.

The only thing he really wanted to know was why, out of all the available mercenaries, the Bolt brothers picked none other than _Caroline Morgan_ to be their emissary.

Renfield had crossed paths with Morgan a few times. He respected that her determination to be the best, just like himself. And yet, at the same time, he disliked how she liked muscling her way out of a situation when she was cornered. He suspected that the Agency had courted her at one point early in her career. Regardless, smart and deadly, Morgan was the _last_ person Renfield wanted to see.

It made sense, of course, that what the Bolts needed was someone who had a cold heart and an ease with guns that would wow the most hardened criminal. Morgan had the deadliest of aims and close to no scruples. Renfield slipped the comm device back in his right pocket, keeping his movements fluid enough not to alert anyone.

He hunched his shoulders, grateful that Morgan's focus appeared to be on Volpe only. Renfield swallowed hard as he waited agonizing second after agonizing second while Volpe and Morgan, talking to each other in very low tones, worked out their deal. Even though he wasn't religious, he sent a half-prayer to any one deity that the hand-off would go smoothly because the last thing he wanted was to confront Morgan.

The doorbell chimed again almost signaling the beginning of a boxing round. One man stood by the door, holding it open for another one who looked like a younger version of the first man. The angle the man kept the door at reflected the dying rays of the late afternoon sun. Morgan, squinting at the glare, tilted her head on the opposite direction and locked eyes with Renfield.

Everything slowed down. Renfield inhaled, eyes hard on Morgan, and got ready for whatever was to happen next: a shoot-out, a hostage situation or worse.

*****

"El Taco Loco, Gee?" Mikey raised a quizzical eyebrow. He wasn't much of a food snob--touring since early adulthood had made his stomach practically invulnerable to bad food. Well, except that one time when everyone but Frank and Gee had gotten food poisoning. But he had never understood Gerard’s fascination with Mexican food. Still, food was food and, having only had two cups of coffee and a protein bar, Mikey was ready to stuff himself with tacos. He could always scoop the refried beans out of the taco shells.

The low-key vibe of the restaurant was comforting and he was curious about a place Gerard couldn't stop raving about.

"I still don’t know how you’ve never heard about the place that makes the best damn burritos this side of the Mexican border, Mikes," Gerard answered, stepping in front of Mikey and pulling the door open.

"Even better than the ones we had at that taco stand in Monterrey? 'cause I thought everyone in the band was ready to move in with the taco guy. Didn't we eat everything he had in stock?"

Gerard scratched his hair. "Ah, yeah," he said. "I think Frank and Bob were going to have a deathmatch to decide who would marry the taco guy's wife just so they could eat her food forever." He smirked. "Good times."

Mikey opened his mouth to give him a reply when a gangster-looking guy ran into him hard enough to make him fall on his ass. " _What the fuck?_ " he thought, looking up to Gerard who had a bewildered expression that was almost cartoonish.

Gerard pulled back the hand he was offering when a short woman jumped _through_ the big window like something out of a 1950s Western film. Mikey curled up, bringing his arms up to protect his head against the broken glass. The badass woman simply rolled on the floor for a couple of seconds, got up and broke out in the opposite direction as the guy. Mikey waited two whole breaths before risking opening an eye, grateful that Gerard was already dialing 911, when a tall guy grabbed his arm and pulled him up.

"Excuse me, are you OK?" the man asked.

Mikey nodded, a few shards of glass falling from his hair and twinkling on the floor. He was about to ask the man what was going on when the man took off in the same direction as the woman. Blinking a few times, Mikey exhaled as his whole body tilting to the side, his knees felt like they could go at any second.

"Whoa!" Gerard said, in a voice that sounded distorted, grabbing Mikey by his right wrist and leading inside the restaurant. "Welcome to L.A., Mikes," he said, making Mikey sit down on the chair closest to the door.

The sound of police sirens grew closer with every second.

*****

Renfield zagged every which way, breathing hard the longer he ran, and kept his eyes focused on Morgan. Hopefully, Eric or one of the back-up teams was chasing after Volpe. The one good thing of his present situation was that rush hour had come and gone--less cars on the streets meant that he didn't have to risk getting run over by a motorist. The world was a blur of sounds and images as he started to gain on Morgan. He let himself almost smile the closer he got to her.

They continued for a couple of blocks until Morgan reached the entrance to the La Brea/Santa Maria subway station. It was a risky maneuver, both of them knew that she could end up getting trapped and snatched by him. But, Morgan's whole motto was nothing but "embracing the risk." Renfield grimaced when she began to run down the stairs.

Cursing with every breath--Morgan was nothing if not unpredictable and gun-happy to boot--Renfield followed her, taking two steps at a time and hoping that he wouldn't slip and fall.

Once on the platform, Morgan stopped paying attention to the fact that he was chasing her. She moved all the way to the far end and slipped into the last car of the eastbound subway.

Keeping his pace, Renfield had only made it half-way when the train took off. He could only stare, a hard frown on his face, as Morgan blew him a kiss and waved good-bye.

*****

"Dude, what the fuck just happened?" Mikey asked as they walked back to Gerard's car after being questioned by the LAPD and getting checked out by the EMTs.

Gerard shrugged while trying to light his second cigarette." These two random people went crazy with the action-flick vibe. It's a miracle we didn't get shot."

Mikey grasped Gerard's hands, squeezing for a moment until Gerard let go of his lighter. "Here, gimme that," he said. Much as he hated smoking, Gerard looked like he needed all the available nicotine in the world right now. Three tries later, he handed the lit cigarette over to Gerard.

"Thanks," his brother mumbled, taking a deep drag of it. "It went down so fast. You know, for a moment there, I thought we were getting Punk'd."

Mikey shook his head. "Gee, that show's been cancelled for years. Besides, I don't think our episode would've aired."

Gerard pouted. "How come?"

"I fell on my ass and then curled up into a ball. Meanwhile, you just, you know, _stood_ there with this confused-but-gleeful expression. People would’ve been creeped out."

"Yeah, well," Gerard said as they reached Gerard's Mini, "I am still waiting for my fifteen minutes of fame."

Rolling his eyes before settling on the passenger's seat, Mikey made a mental note to call Dr. Allen tomorrow morning. There was the beginning of a headache pushing to the front of his head. Squeezing the bridge of his nose, he did a quick breathing in and out sequence and tried to keep himself from freaking out.

*****

Renfield walked back, not even bothering to hide his scowl, thinking about what had just happened. The mission had been a complete wash and there weren't too many people to blame for its failure.

He stopped four stores before El Taco Loco. No one had swept the broken glass. Instead, someone had placed the yellow DO NOT CROSS tape. A couple of ambulances were driving away from the scene at regular speed, their lights turned off. Renfield exhaled with relief at that. Though he had had enough of a vantage point to see that neither Morgan nor Volpe were holding guns when they escaped, he didn’t know if any civilians had been harmed. A thought popped up in his mind: _like that guy you help stand up_.

However, the three patrol cars parked right outside the restaurant were a likely problem. Though on an official Assignment, Renfield, not sure how much or how little clearance the LAPD had given the Agency, opted for discretion. Sometimes, local police (and even Federal ones) would cooperate without question. In other occasions, an Operative would have to fight every single inch of the way against law enforcement agencies while completing an Assignment.

The first step consisted of understanding the general suspicion and irritation that the Agency brought out in anyone who wasn’t involved with it. Having that kind of subtle dominance over people who were there to protect the innocent had to be a tough pill to swallow. On the other hand, the existence of the Agency kept people safe on a _global_ scale.

Already feeling the heavy pull of defeat, the last thing that Renfield wanted to do was test local police. He exhaled hard before taking a sharp right into an alley. It was time to catch up with his Second.

"He slipped through my fingers," Eric said when Renfield found him staring at the stoplight as it changed colors. Leaning against the graffiti-covered wall, he looked young and vulnerable. "I managed to hold onto his coat," he continued, showing a torn sleeve to Renfield, "but then, he twisted really hard and tripped me up. It was weird. I thought he was going to shoot me, he could’ve. I mean, I was on the floor. But, he didn’t even whip out a gun. He just busted out of the alley like the devil himself was chasing him."

Renfield closed his eyes. The likelihood that either of them would make it without being punished was infinitesimally small. Better to face it head on and prepare themselves for the consequences. "Well, I have to call it in," he said as he took out his phone and dialed the Agency.

"Good morning, Transatlantic Incorporated. How may I direct your call?"

"Bitto 74533."

"Status?"

"Compromised."

"One moment, please."

The muzak version of a song from the late 60s came through the receiver. Renfield found himself humming along while waiting. Part of him wanted to be able to go back in time and change the outcome. There were so many ways he could have played a smarter angle . . .

Sometime around the second verse, the song was cut short when the operator returned to the line. "Head Operative Vecchio is not available at the moment. We’re going to download the coordinates to your hotel. Please check-in and wait for new directives."

 _Darn._ This was the last thing he wanted to hear. Renfield cracked the knuckles of his left hand, trying to keep a cool head. Neither he nor Eric would benefit from him panicking. "Will do," he answered. Hopefully, Vecchio would intercede for them before the Agency saw this failure as something to be _extremely_ concerned about.

"And, Operative? Good luck."

_Click._

"We have a new rendezvous point," Renfield said as he waited for the info to pop up on his phone’s screen. "Until they call us to go home."

"How much trouble do you think we are?" Eric asked, biting his lower lip.

Renfield tilted his head and shrugged. "More than enough. That's for sure. C'mon. Our hotel is fifteen minutes away. Car's this way," he said, pointing behind him.

Both were quiet as Renfield drove them through the L.A. streets.

They walked into the lobby of the Marino Hotel looking every bit at odds with the upscale decor. Despite his many years working for the Agency, Renfield was momentarily amused when they managed to check-in without so much as "Good evening, we have a reservation under ‘Transatlantic Incorporated’. There were times when he wondered about how far the Agency could reach.

He smiled at the front desk clerk, wondering if she had any idea of what they had been involved in. Standing next to him, Eric remained quiet and closed in. The subdued mood was rather unsettling. A measure of pity made itself known inside Renfield, strong enough for him to let Eric have the room with the bigger bed. Not that he could see either of them sleeping--even though they had been trained to take proper rest in any conceivable situation.

Renfield did a few push-ups, flipped through the TV, waiting for the inevitable to happen. The anxiety of what tomorrow would bring kept him too wired to relax. The only thing he knew was that he had to be ready for the questions that Management was sure to throw his way.

He lay down on top of the comforter, putting his forearm across his eyes for sharper concentration. Taking one deep breath after another, just like Fraser had once taught him, he let his mind go through every moment of the Assignment from his arrival at LAX on.

Several repetitions of the sequence of events triggered a feeling that he was missing something. If Vecchio and everyone else involved in this Assignment, but more specifically Eric and himself, were going to be interrogated as to how things unraveled, Renfield wanted to make sure he had something to bargain with if necessary.

He kept thinking of Volpe stumbling into the guy, not quite pushing him down, when he could have avoided any type of collision. Volpe was agile enough. Unless . . .

Renfield sat up, mouth agape while random ideas connected until the pattern solidified in his head. He considered the perspectives, calculated the velocity and reflected on the fact that the handoff did not happen.

It was a ridiculous assumption, one that, if wrong, was a surefire ticket to a demotion. And yet, no matter how he looked at it, he kept arriving to the same conclusion: _Volpe had gotten rid of Valhalla_.

Riding the adrenaline surge the longer the idea took hold in his head, he picked up his phone and dialed Vecchio's private line.

"What do you want?" Vecchio semi-slurred two rings later. "Ain't it enough that we have to meet with Management as soon as Eric and you come back over here?"

Renfield licked his lips. He closed his eyes, getting his thoughts in order, before answering. "I know who has Valhalla, and it's not Volpe."

Vecchio snorted. "Pfft, that’s yesterday’s news, Turnbull. A thorough search of his body confirmed that. The Bolts must be downloading Valhalla into their little computers right about now."

"His body?" Renfield frowned. "Whose body?"

" _Volpe’s_ ". Vecchio answered scornfully. "Someone ran him over not five minutes after he weaseled out of your Second’s hands. Cortez and Levon were at the scene all the way through the Coroner’s office. The LAPD was mighty pissed, even tried to muscle us out, but the Agency made sure they understood the situation. Now, tell me, how do _you_ know that he didn’t have Valhalla?

"Because the handoff didn't happen the way it was supposed to." He cleared his throat. "At least, it didn't look like it did from where I was sitting."

"Uh huh."

Renfield hmmed. Here went nothing: "But he did give it to _someone else_."

"Oh?" There was a clink--perhaps Vecchio was fixing himself another drink. "Who he’d give it to? The waitress?"

Swallowing hard before answering, so much riding on this idea of his, Renfield made up his mind and answered. "Nope. I’m thinking about the guy he bumped against when he escaped. It’s in his jacket. In one of the pockets. It’s the only place he’d could have slipped Valhalla in."

"Is that a fact?" Vecchio hiccupped. "This guy a Rogue, a freelancer or someone hired by an unknown third party?"

"He didn’t look familiar. Could have been a civilian, I don’t really know. But that doesn’t mean the Agency can’t identify him," Renfield answered. "Once we know who he is, we’ll find him and get Valhalla back."

"OK, run this whole thing by me. From the very beginning, Turnbull," Vecchio said in a warning tone.

"Well," Renfield said, "I walked into El Taco Loco . . ."

To his credit, Vecchio listened to him without interrupting once. "Damn, I think being Kowalski and Fraser's handler for so long has rubbed off on both you and me. Or maybe I should have had wine instead of whiskey. Because you are making a lot of sense for something that’s based on a crazy assumption."

Now that he had said it out loud, Renfield grew more confident about his theory no matter how fantastical it sounded. "Statistics will back me up, Vecchio. You know I can find the guy and finish the Assignment."

"How long do you think you'll need?" Vecchio's voice had turned serious.

"Recon and procurement of Valhalla?" Renfield squinted at nothing in particular. "It shouldn’t take more than a few days. Three at most."

"All right," Vecchio said after a couple of seconds. "We'll see what we can dig up from the cameras and send you all the data in a few hours. Get some sleep and cleaned up--"

"I don't have any clean--"

Vecchio cut in. "Your credit card should be good for a considerable credit line by tomorrow morning. Go shopping for clothes then. Hey, you haven't returned the car yet right?"

"No," Renfield answered. "But I did use valet parking."

Vecchio snorted. "Well, that will _definitely_ be docked out of your pay. Seriously, Turnbull, keep your phone on and try to get some rest. I have a feeling this has just begun."

"Now _you’re_ having hunches? Like Kowalski?"

" _Dio non voglia!_ " Vecchio sounded offended enough to make Renfield snicker.

"Never mind, Vecchio. Good night," Renfield said, the relief of obtaining a second chance easing around him. He hung up and headed to the bathroom, a good and long hot bath was what he needed at this very moment.

*****

"What a day, huh?" Gerard placed his cup of coffee on the floor.

"Apparently, L.A. thought I needed some kind of, you know, jolt in my life." Mikey sighed. "Because, like, being in a successful rock band isn't enough." He took a sip of his own coffee, half-wishing they hadn’t gone anywhere. His head hurt . . .

"Hey, at least it wasn't a gang high on PCP," Gerard offered.

"Huh?" Mikey set his own cup on the low table, next to the two sketchbooks, but not so close that he could tip it by accident.

" _Buffy_ , dude. You know, the ‘real’ reason for all the crazy happenings in California." Gerard bumped his shoulder against Mikey's. "What's going on in that noggin' of yours, Mikes?"

"Fire bad, tree pretty," Mikey muttered. He felt the weight of Gerard’s gaze on him, but his eyes focused on the gold band around Gerard's finger. His big bro was married and on his way to becoming a father sometime in the near future. He felt growing need to touch the ring, gauge how heavy it would feel on _his_ hand, find out if it would feel less like something that wasn't quite meant for him.

Funny, for someone who wasn’t ‘the marrying kind’, he was getting mighty fixated on the subject. A giggle bubbled up to the top of his head. "One day my prince will come. . ." wasn't there a song from a Disney movie like that? He liked cartoons. He. . .

"Mikes? Mikey?"

Gerard’s voice was disjointed, white noise wrapped around it, as if it was traveling from the phone in their childhood home (always with a shitty connection). Or as if they had been sitting at opposite ends of the house rather than on the same couch.

Mikey wanted to scream or cry or just do anything to be able to put himself back together. This wasn’t as bad as the time at the mansion--even though he was so out of it. Focusing all his strength at once, he lifted his head and looked at Gerard.

His brother had this funny expression, all wide-eyed and making the most exaggerated faces Mikey had ever seen. Mikey blinked, his eyelids were so heavy and the darkness that called out to him was soothing . . .

 

"--no, I think he's still resting." That was Gerard, scratchy-voiced from smoking too many cigarettes.

"So, what happened?" Lindsey's calm tone cleared some of the buzz in Mikey's head.

"One minute, everything was OK and then, he grabbed my hand and kinda went _PLOP!_ "

Mikey blinked while trying to figure out where he was (the couch in the living room of Gerard's house in CA) and what had happened (he had fainted, maybe?). In the process of sitting up, he kicked the cup Gerard had put on the floor. "Shit!" he squeaked after the cup bumped against the coffee table’s leg. The lights came on, startling Mikey a little further.

Gerard walked into the room, his movements slowed down, like he was expecting Mikey to do something crazy at any moment. "Hey, Mikey, how are you feeling?"

"Um, OK, I think. Wha-what time is it? What happened?"

Taking the cashmere throw from the closest chaise, Gerard sat down next to Mikey, staring at him with a worried face. "I think you went into shock or something like it. I’m not sure. We were talking and then, it was like someone had flicked off a switch. You just started to laugh at nothing really, almost began to hyperventilate and ended up passing out," Gerard continued as he wrapped the blanket around Mikey. "It's probably what the EMTs were talking about when we were back at El Taco Loco after the 'incident'," he said, making quotation marks with his fingers.

Mikey tried to rub the sleep off his eyes. "Time?" he asked in between yawns.

"It’s almost ten. How you feeling?"

"Uh, tired. Like, super-jetlagged? I don't remember much after we got in the car," Mikey admitted. A wave of embarrassment hit him hard enough to blush.

"I figured as much because you got _really_ quiet by the time I got on Sunset. Like, quieter than usual. I kinda thought it was better to let you be. You told me you were fine so I assumed you were tired from the flight. I’m sorry."

Mikey moved his right hand to his face, a ghost habit from when he wore glasses. "No, Gee. I’m the one who’s sorry. For, um, freaking you out. I thought it was an adrenaline thing."

"Nothing to be sorry about, Mikey. Although, I think it'll be a _while_ before I go by El Taco Loco." He pouted.

"Oh, yeah, like you’re able to resist the temptation of a _Burrito con todo_ , Gerard. Besides, there are a million taco places to eat in this city," Lindsey said. She sat on Mikey's other side. "Here, I brew this for you. It's this totally bitchin' ginger-orange tea mix from an organic store in WeHo. You'll feel, like, ten times better afterwards."

Mikey grabbed the cup Lindsey had offered him and held it up to his lips. Even though it wasn't coffee--which, admittedly, might have left him slightly too jittery after going through a shock episode--nor sweetened, he curled his tongue around the hot liquid, enjoying how it seemed to have eased most of the knots in his body. His stomach growled.

"So, tell me, what are you in the mood for, Mikey?" Lindsey asked him, rubbing his right arm for a couple of minutes before getting up and walking towards the side table in the dining room. "There are a lot of really yummy places around here that offer take-out."

On Mikey's left side, Gerard had curled up against him, holding his waist tight with his right arm, as if Mikey would bolt at any moment. "How about we go with "ladies' choice" hmm?"

"Aw, my brother-in-law is such a gentleman," Lindsey said half-giggling as she picked up the cordless phone and dialed a number.

From somewhere near Mikey's armpit, Gerard mumbled "anything but Mexican."

"Dork," Mikey said with a gentle slap on Gee's head.

"Whatever, Mikes," Gerard said after moving his head to the side. "That was one scary scene. I don't really know what I'd have done if . . . you know."

"Yeah, I know, big bro. I know." He closed his eyes and tilted his head back until it rested against the top of the couch.

The ding from the doorbell woke Mikey up. He made a face at seeing a totally zonked out Gerard drooling on his shoulder. Despite the general consensus, he didn't share Gerard's indifference to grossness. At least, not when he wasn’t touring.

He slid away from Gerard with careful movements, wondering if he had any clean t-shirts left. The kitchen light came on. Lindsey was having a one-sided conversation with someone on her phone. Mikey squinted against the sudden brightness and half-shuffled his way to the guest room.

He peeled off the dark blue "I love Detroit Tires" t-shirt he'd bought at a thrift store in Rio de Janeiro, throwing it next to his battered duffel. Bending down to rummage through the bag, he caught a whiff off himself and scowled. Maybe it was time to wash away the road grime and slide into something clean before sitting down for dinner. He gathered his very last clean clothes: a faded, softer-than-soft pair of jeans he'd owned since before My Chem had left on tour, one of the last surviving Thursday black hoodies, his blue boxer briefs and a pair of socks.

Thankfully, the bathroom lights were adjustable. He studied his reflection: here was a young man who was paler than he should be, his dark brown--and extremely greasy, he noticed with slight disgust--hair almost reaching his shoulders and the kind of body that was all sharp angles. The longer he stared, the more he could imagine what his mother would say if she could see him like this: "You look like you need some of Nana's lasagna." Mikey rubbed the palm of his hands over his face. The stubble hadn't grown much between his last shave and now. Way males couldn’t grow bushy beards.

He undressed without haste, piling the rest of his clothing by the vanity sink and stepped into the shower.

Leaning against the opposite wall, he allowed the hot water hit his back until it started to work all the kinks out. Mikey embraced the moment for what it was: a kind of letting go of doubt about himself, about him and Alicia, about what he was supposed to be doing right now. Lathering up, Mikey started to think that maybe it was time to head back to NYC after his visit here in L.A. and then, come back to Cali and settle down. He smiled at nothing, tilting back into the spray. Maybe Gerard could give him the name of a good realtor.

He finished cleaning up, toweling off and getting ready to dig in whatever Lindsey had ordered. Walking to the dining room, cell phone in hand as he replied to a couple of Ray’s Tweets, he was about to ask what's for dinner, when he heard Gerard and Lindsey's voices.

"So, how is he?" Lindsey sounded worried.

"We haven't really talked. Well, we've caught up on stuff, but I mean, he's Mikey, you know? It takes a while for him to spill the beans or whatever." The sound of crinkling plastic filled the silence. "Hey, did you order samosas?"

"Duh," Lindsey answered. There was a murmur then, followed by the distinct sound of a kiss.

Mikey's face grew hot as his earlier confidence started to fray a little. Maybe he was intruding. After all, Gee and Lindsey were still newlyweds. He could always go back to the guest room and take a nap.

"There you are!" Lindsey said with a big smile on her face.

Mikey gave her a side smile. Apparently, he was still a little out of it if he hadn’t noticed her walking up to him.

Lindsey swatted him on the shoulder. "We were just about to start without you. Gerard and Indian food, you know, talk about true love."

He nodded. "I wanted to clean up a little," he said, the sudden embarrassment at acting proper only heightened the self-consciousness.

Lindsey rolled her eyes. "You're as much of a dork as Gerard is. Let's get to the table before your brother licks all of the plates clean."

"Hey, I _resent_ that!" Gerard yelled from the dining room, his voice muffled by whatever he was eating.

Once dinner was done, Lindsey went to bed.

Mikey and Gerard had settled in the living room; Gerard channel-surfing while Mikey had a 'texting war' with Pete.

"That Wentz is a bad influence," Gerard said in near monotone as he stared at a Season 2 rerun of Top Chef.

"We're in the same gang, Gee," Mikey answered after texting good night to Pete. He was about to put his phone away when it pinged again.

_mikey fucking way, you better get your ass to chicago by 9/3 or else._

It was signed "frankenmonster."

Mikey shook his head. "Frank," he said before Gerard asked. "Dude is crazy." He texted a reply:

_that’s like days away. wtf, iero? what’s w/the last min. dates and shit?_

He turned his head towards Gerard. "Frank thinks I'm going to Chicago, like, the day after tomorrow."

Gerard shrugged after switching to a horror movie. "He misses you, that's all. Are we in the mood for _The Dorm That Dripped Blood?_ "

"Is that a trick question?" Mikey looked away from Gerard, tapping his fingers on his cell phone. "So now I'm on a mission to follow him all over the US?"

"It's not like you don't have the miles or time, Mikes," Gerard answered after settling the remote control on the sofa arm and leaning back until he was comfortable.

Mikey was going to reply when his phone pinged again.

_Leathrmth concert and then, play nurse to bob?_

He could practically hear the "pretty, please" attached. He answered:

_you play dirty, bro._

*****

Following a quick breakfast, Renfield drove Eric to the airport early in the morning.

"Looks like Management wants to talk to me first, eh?" Eric said, everything on his face reflecting a mix of nervousness and anticipation that was unlike the man Renfield knew.

"It’s standard procedure, Eric," Renfield answered as they walked to the gates. He pushed his own worry as far down as he could. It wouldn’t do Eric any good to see his lead Operative freaking out. "I should be back at the Agency in a few days."

"So, what do I tell Welsh, Coleman or anyone else who asks about you?" Eric said when they came to a stop outside Eric’s departure gate.

"Tell them . . ." Renfield stared out into the distance for a beat, "tell them that the parameters of my Assignment have changed. Don’t worry about it, though, I'm sure Vecchio has briefed them on the situation."

Eric's eyes narrowed as he tied his long, black hair in a low ponytail. "I can't say I'm not curious about this new 'parameter' of yours, Renfield. Or if, maybe, you're happy to be getting rid of me."

Renfield sighed at the tease. "It's become a one-man Assignment. Nothing more," he answered. Following an impulse to hug Eric good-bye, he did just that. "Take care, OK? Try not to drive Vecchio too crazy."

If Eric was surprised by the sudden gesture, he didn't show it. But he did return the hug without hesitation.

"Aw, and now you deny me one of my favourite hobbies," he said once they came apart. His lower lip sticking out, Eric looked younger than his 29 years. Sobering up, he placed a hand on Renfield's shoulder. "Listen, whatever it is you're going to do now, watch your back, keep your eyes wide open and make sure you get home in one piece, all right?" They shook hands. "Good luck, Renfield," Eric said as he walked to the gates without looking back.

Renfield walked into a department store after driving back from the airport. There was no point in denying how relieved he felt that his Second seemed to have bounced back to his everyday camaraderie (occasionally annoying as it could be.) A petite, older woman with a severe bob walked up to him. "Good morning, I’m Myrna. How may we help you today?"

"I need . . . Um." Renfield ignored the sudden heat on his face and settled for a casual tone. "The airline misplaced my bags."

Myrna studied him head to toe before offering a gentle smile. "Are you in need of suits or something more informal?"

"Casual clothes would be best," he answered.

"Excellent," Myrna said before she led him to the dressing room.

One hour later, Renfield walked out, practically juggling a whole army of bags, inwardly grateful that he hadn’t picked any suits.

Following a quick lunch at the hotel’s restaurant and no news from Vecchio, he decided to head back to his room. He sat on the sofa and curled up with a sci-fi paperback about a planet that was caught in a 30-day time loop and the man who was destined to break that loop apart.

*****

The next day, Mikey spent most of it sitting in the art studio, curled around his laptop, while Gerard searched through his paints. "Man, this sucks!" he said, reining in the urge to slam his laptop as hard as he wanted to.

"What’s up?" Gerard asked, picking up a couple of red acrylics and starting to mix them up.

"The only available flight is tonight. Like, at ten PM. That’s so lame. Maybe I should text Frank that I’m staying put, you know?"

"Mikes, go," Gerard said, "Hang out with the boys. You gotta. I mean, now that you’ve come back to the land of the living."

"It just feels shitty, you know?" He picked at the corner of one of the stickers on the top of his laptop. "I just got here and now I’m zipping out."

Gerard scratched his chin. "Well, if it’s any consolation, I got an email from Dark Horse late last night. They want me to fly over there by the end of this week and discuss "Dallas". So, you see, little brother, you would have been brother-less in a few days." He put down the paint and walked to where Mikey was sitting. "Go, run around with our friends and then, we can start to talk about how and when you’ll make it over here in Cali."

"What?" Mikey almost jumped out of the chair he was sitting on.

"Yeah, like I wouldn’t pay attention to my little bro practically interrogating my wife about what life is like L.A." Gerard scoffed and walked back to where his paints were, picking up a couple of acrylics. "Mikes, even waist deep in chicken korma, I can see the wheels in your head turning around and around."

Mikey raised an eyebrow. "East coast is, like, filled up with metric tons of emotional landmines. A change will do me good."

"That it will do, Mikey," Gerard said. He turned around and started to prep the blank canvas.

Sometimes, Mikey thought while shaking his head, having a big brother was the greatest and most annoying thing in the world.

*****

Renfield had gotten ten chapters into his book when his phone rang.

"Turnbull."

The operator's voice came on. "Good afternoon, this is Transatlantic Incorporated. Please hold for Mr. Vecchio."

There was a series of beeps. When prompted to enter his code, Renfield did so, hoping all the while that his hypothesis had been correct.

"Well, well, if it's not the man who guesses," Vecchio said.

"You're the one who called me," Renfield replied, somewhat hastily. "You have news?"

"Morgan," Vecchio said, his voice slightly on edge, "got on the first flight out of L.A. a little after midnight yesterday."

Renfield frowned. "So she went back to the Bolts then."

"Ah, not quite," Vecchio answered. "Her non-stop flight was L.A. to Madrid. Bought a first class ticket."

"Oh." Renfield winced as soon as he made his disappointment audible.

Vecchio tut-tuted at him. "No, no, no, Turbull. Don’t you see that having Morgan fly out of the US was _exactly_ what we needed to back your new Assignment? The Agency doesn’t think she had Valhalla either."

Pushing a flare of irritation aside, Renfield tried to remain calm. "Like I told you."

"Ah, but this confirms it," Vecchio said. "We would have heard about it. No way she’d be able to sit on something as big as Valhalla without someone finding out about it."

"Yes, I know. You’d have called me sooner," Renfield said, still holding his book, as he listened on.

"And, of course, the technological wonders of this day and age have come through for you as well. Maybe I should ask you to buy me a Lotto ticket."

Renfield sat up, the paperback forgotten thumped on the floor. "You know who Volpe pushed to the floor."

"And how." Vecchio snorted. "Though if you ask me, all we needed to do was Google the poor bastard."

"I’m sorry, I don't follow."

"He's Mikey Way, bass guitarist of My Chemical Romance."

Renfield hoped that Vecchio wouldn't comment on his silence. He truly wasn’t up-to-date with rock music. At least, not like he was with country-western.

Vecchio chuckled. "No need to feel unhip, Turnbull. No one over here, save strangely enough, _Spender_ , knew who he was or anything about his band. Anyway, forget about that. What matters is that the subject is presently in Los Angeles, presumably visiting Gerard Way, his older brother and lead singer for the band."

 _At last, a break!_ Renfield thought. "Location?" he asked.

"This one is tricky. He's staying at his brother's house right now. So, no bagging or tagging." Vecchio sounded as annoyed as Renfield was beginning to feel.

"Solution?"

"Since we’re going with the idea that he's got Valhalla with him, we're thinking about the least intrusive plan," Vecchio said in a serious tone,

"Maybe sending Eric back was a little hasty?" Renfield hadn’t done Shadow work in a long time. He was sure he could pick most locks without much trouble. However, it was the idea of how sloppy his other skills must be what he dreaded the most.

"Well, what's done is done. I mean, we can't quite turn the plane around as if they were driving on the I-80."

"Hmmm."

"We’ll send you all the info: alarm codes and coordinates to the house as soon as Statistics makes sure that you can slip in and out without any problems. Last thing we need is to have to bail you out from jail. No need to go stirring LAPD up and all that. Anyway, keep the phone on and await instructions."

"Very well, Vecchio. Good-bye."

"Bye, Turnbull."

He hung up and bent over to pick up his book. It took him several pages to get his focus back on the story.

*****

"You're sure you don't mind?" Mikey asked hours later. E-ticket in his back pocket, he was still feeling crappy about leaving Gerard after promising him that they would hang out for more than a few days.

"You're still serious about moving here?" Gerard asked, his eyes wide like he was expecting the worst.

Mikey raised an eyebrow and nodded once. "It's going to be a very good thing, Gee. I'll call what’s his name as soon as I'm on my way back from the East. Hopefully, your realtor can show me a couple of ‘cool pads’ like your place."

Earlier in the day, he'd waited until he felt calm enough to ask Gerard everything about what living in Los Angeles was like. Gerard answered as he did his art thing and Mikey checked out his Twitter.

Gerard's smile was so bright that it made Mikey's heart ache a little. He had forgotten how much he loved seeing his brother on a daily basis. "Plus, it'll give me time to get to New York, see what's left to pack . . ."

"Make a stop in Jersey to see Mom and Dad," Gerard cut in. "Sneak out of their house at night and remember the good ol' days when you were a scene queen . . ."

Mikey grunted. No matter how old either of them was, Gerard would never avoid the opportunity to remind Mikey of his times as a mod baby. Like it was his fault he liked The Untouchables.

"Anyway, yes, do all that." He paused, frowning for a couple of seconds. "Well, except for the ‘sneaking out of the house’ part. Don't know if I'll stick around long enough to spend the night."

Gerard exhaled and stopped biting his nails. "As long as you make an appearance at the table, I don't think Mom and Dad will hold it against you for too long."

The PA system came on announcing the departure of Flight 1566 to O'Hare International. Snaking his arms around Mikey, Gerard gave him a nearly bone-crushing hug. "You say hello to Bob and Frank for me, deal?"

Mikey squeak in response. "Need. Air," he wheezed.

"Sorry," Gerard said, blushing a little. "Call me after you check in your room, OK?"

"Will do," Mikey answered, giving Gerard one last quick hug before waving good-bye.

"Have a safe flight," Gerard said as he waved back.

Mikey went through the checkpoint with a renewed sense of purpose. Taking his seat in the business class--at least all those months of traveling after the tour had paid off in enough mileage to get bumped out of coach if he so wanted--Mikey listened to Pulp's _Freaks_ while waiting for the airplane to finish getting ready for takeoff. Looking out the window, he started to feel a certain kind of peace. Seeing some more of his friends and then, New York (Alicia) and Jersey (his family) was going to be a _good_ way to start putting his life in order. At last.

*****

Renfield was 48 minutes into the treadmill when his phone rang. _VECCHIO_ the screen blinked. Huffing out a mild curse, he slowed his pace to walking before answering.

"Well, this is becoming some kind of near mystical quest, Turnbull."

"I beg pardon?" Renfield picked up his towel and swiped the sweat off his face.

"You need to check out of your hotel and head over to LAX. Way is on the move."

"What? Where?"

"He'll be arriving to Chicago sometime in the next three hours," Vecchio said, clearly irritated. "This guy sure likes to travel."

"I can be at LAX in 45 minutes."

"And that's what I like to hear. Don't bother going to any of the airlines. The Agency got one of those Hollywood actors to lend us their jet for the day."

"Really?" Renfield made his way through the empty hotel gym.

"It's crazy, I know." Vecchio's irritation faded into the background a little. "The best thing about it is that we can get you to Chicago merely an hour behind Way. He's got a reservation at some chi-chi hotel in Chicago."

"So I'm going to check-in at the same place?"

"No, you’ll be at the Talbot. Practically around the corner. Close enough to keep tabs on him without having to tip our hand to anyone else. Now that we’ve locked his location down, this is going to be very easy. You’ll go do this bit of recovery, Way will be none the wiser about it and you can bring this damn Valhalla to the Agency once and for all."

"Yes, Vecchio."

"Call me as soon as your plane touches down. There will be a car ready for you at the hangar. In the meantime, we're emailing you the dossier on Mikey Way. Good luck."

"Thank you," Renfield answered as he stepped in the elevator, feeling strangely excited to be on the move again.

*****

Chicago weather wasn't as mild as California. Mikey was glad he'd decided against leaving his leather jacket back at Gerard's. Zipping it close and raising the collar a little, he stepped out into the street and hailed a cab. At close to five in the morning, he was feeling like warmed over crud.

He texted Frank:

_in chicago, bro. where are you?_

Frank's text was messy. He might have been drinking:

_sahow was kickaasssdk. will be in chi-town tomorrow afternoon._

Mikey texted back an "OK" before leaning against the backseat and letting the easy sway of the taxi as the driver waved them through the traffic lull him into an almost-nap.

The car came to a smooth stop in front of the Elysian. After paying his fare, Mikey stepped out the taxi, nodding at the doorman on his way to the entrance of the hotel.

Once in his room--after what had to be the smoothest check-in in history--he stripped down to his boxers and the same sweatshirt he'd been wearing since the night before.

There was no question he could deal without taking a shower til the next morning, but it was definitely time to do laundry. He waited until he had dumped every stitch of clothing, save what he was wearing and his leather jacket, into the hotel’s laundry bag, before making a somewhat embarrassing phone call to the front desk for someone to pick the bag up in the morning. It was going to be ridiculously expensive, but there wasn’t much he could do at that point. At least he had accomplishing something.

He ordered an omelet with hash browns and coffee from room service, settling down to watch TV while waiting for his dinner-breakfast. Hungry and underslept--time zones were the bane of his existence--Mikey slipped into the hotel’s bathrobe and wondered why he had agreed to come to Chicago.

Fifteen minutes later, a bellboy knocked on the door. Mikey--who, by that point had eaten all the mints in the room--mumbled ‘Thanks’ and gave him a good tip.

He didn’t remember ever been this hungry. One full belly later, he stretched along the sofa and fell asleep.

Sometime in the later part of the next morning, his phone beeped the alarm for his session with Dr. Allen. Unlike other times in the not-so-distant past, Mikey was looking forward to talking about what had happened in his life since the last time he’d talked to his therapist.

He waited until he was done with therapy to leave a voicemail in Bob’s cell. Next was a text for Pete:

_hey, little dude. i’m in chicago. think u and ur thugs can let me inside a &k?_

Pete’s reply was, well, very Pete-like:

_sad I won’t be there to jump u. should’ve come to vegas, dude._

Mikey rolled his eyes. His response was short:

_gonna stay here for the next few days. we could hang out and be rad little dudes together._

Pete’s text was instantaneous:

_won’t be @home turf for a few weeks. #missedopportunity. ur on the list though, bro. go on and be a rockstar. make me proud._

*****

Renfield found it slightly difficult not to get lost in the enjoyment of all the luxury that made up his present surroundings. The brie in the cheese platter he had for lunch was superb. He hoped he could get the name of the brand and see if Mr. Tucci could get it for him.

He tapped his cell phone’s screen and opened up the dossier, starting with the subject’s photos. The very first one was that of a slim man in his late 20s wearing a black jacket--that resembled a band uniform--and dark jeans. Face scrunched in concentration, he was playing a black and white bass guitar. Renfield studied the arch of Mikey Way’s eyebrows, his honey-brown eyes and his long, pale neck. A wave of desire ran through him after staring at the headshot for one minute too long.

Clearing his throat, he flicked through the data, storing the fact that he found the subject attractive somewhere in his mind.

Three hours later, Renfield felt he had learned everything there was to learn about his quarry. Not that he was going to strike a conversation with him. Sadly, that wouldn’t be necessary for this Assignment. The flight to O’Hare had been a bumpy one. He was glad to be back on solid ground.

Vecchio’s text sobered him up even further as he opened the trunk of his borrowed car:

_Subj’s phone’s tapped. Tonight, he’ll be at a club called Angels and Kings. All relevant data about the location will be sent shortly._

Fleetingly mortified by the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to a club, Renfield texted back a simple " _Acknowledged_ " and turned the car on.

Several random turns later, he was finally out of O’Hare and on the 190 heading toward Chicago proper. Somewhere between shifting his focus on what he had to do versus what could be waiting for him at Angels & Kings, he realized he hadn’t pickpocketed anyone since Prague.

And that was three years ago.

Frowning as he sped on the highway, Renfield chewed on the fact that no good would come from picking on his inattention to practical skills. The best he could hope for was that the subject wouldn't notice him during the theft. Of course, he’d have to get close enough first. And what if there was someone else tailing the subject too?

It was true that Morgan had hightailed it out of the US, but that didn't mean much when an Agency database, whether or not complete, was on the table. The Bolts were known for their collective stubbornness. It would be silly to not consider the possibility that they would go after Valhalla themselves with or without Warfield's assistance. Not that Warfield would offer them any after Volpe’s death and the missing Valhalla.

Renfield walked into his room at the Talbot following a quiet drive to the hotel. Modern and spacious, the brown hues calmed him down. He opened his suitcase and spent some time trying to pick an outfit that would both let him blend in amongst the club’s patrons as well as be comfortable enough to do a roundhouse kick in. Shaving in the bathroom forty minutes later, he smirked after thinking that he felt as if he was getting ready for a date.

One quick and light dinner later, Renfield parked his rental car in an alley four storefronts away from the club. He cut off the engine and took a deep breath to keep his heart rate down. Shaky nerves lead to civilians getting hurt.

He slid a hand down to his ankle gun holster one last time, finding a measure of comfort on the cold weight. Taking a quick scan of the surrounding area, he stepped out of the car, mussing up his hair to look less like himself and more like a man looking forward to having a fun time. His reflection on the car window projected what he hoped was an enticing image: a dark red t-shirt, black leather jacket and inky blue jeans with his cowboy boots.

The bass from the music in the club made the sidewalk right outside Angels & Kings vibrate. Renfield smiled at the people in front of him. The line moved rather quickly. It was a little past midnight. Maybe he should have arrived later.

The bouncer, a guy whose arms were covered with all kind of tattoos, looked up and down at him with a smirk. Perhaps his clothing was going to be a determent. _I might have to sneak into the club_ , he thought, feeling excited about that option. Renfield had begun to figure out other points of entry into the club when the bouncer return him his ID and stamped the inside of his left wrist.

"Hope you have a good time, cowboy," he said dismissively.

Renfield was glad he had decided to leave his cowboy hat at home. "Thanks," he said before he made his way in. He scooted over to the side of the bar after paying the cover charge. The low lighting didn't really help. "Vodka on the rocks," he yelled at the bartender over the loud guitars of whatever band was playing in the speakers. There was a dance floor to his left, people practically spilling out onto the lounge area; some of them in a dancing frenzy while others were rubbing against each other.

He took another sip, inwardly glad that there was enough space in the club for hanging back, thinking that he'd have to go on recon as soon as he was done with his drink. Someone struck a match on his left. He adjusted his gaze, feeling like had seen someone he could recognize. Intrigued, he started to walk to the back, seeing if he could get a closer look of whoever had walked past his peripheral vision.

By the time he came back, having lost the trail of whomever that person could have been, more people had shown up. Enough for Renfield to have to walk sideways or end up touching people quite inappropriately. He made it back to the bar and ordered a bottle of water. The last thing he needed was to be intoxicated.

Just then, a fast and heavy beat started to play and most of the people in the club screamed and ran to the already packed dance floor. Renfield leaned against the bar and relaxed long enough to enjoy the view.

Unlike these people, he hadn't really participated in social activities such as this one, despite spending most of his younger years in Toronto. Even though this 'scene' wasn’t his kind of thing, it gave him the idea to see if there were any good western bars in Chicago. He was about to make a note of it on his phone when the strobe lights went off in time with the song.

Slightly disoriented for a second, he rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, the very first thing he saw was the unmistakable profile of one Michael Way swaying side to side with a short blond guy who was wearing a lot of eyeliner. Way, whose hair was longer than the one provided in the dossier, was looking around the room as he pressed his hips even closer against the blond guy's.

Renfield let his gaze wander from the dark blue t-shirt Way was wearing down to the skintight black jeans. He gulped some more water, hoping for Way’s sake that he’d brought the darn leather jacket he’d worn during the El Taco Loco rendezvous.

The more he looked at the pair, the more Renfield, not really sure why, wanted to break them apart. He tossed his now-empty bottle in the trashcan and started to walk in the direction of the pair when his gaze shifted slightly to the side.

He was three people away from approaching the subject when he realized he wasn't the only one trying to make his way to the two men dancing. Coming from the opposite end, Tim Kelly, psychopath extraordinaire and one of priciest freelancers in the business, kept his eyes on Way and his dancing companion.

Renfield quickened his pace, throwing out "excuse me's" and "pardon me's" as he tried to cut through the many clubgoers.

*****

Mikey had just finished his Lemon drop when the DJ started to play the remix of _Kings & Queens_. Ernie, sound tech for pretty much every up-and-coming band in Chicago's underground, was already wasted. "Come on, Mikey Way," he half-slurred, taking him by the hand, "let's go boogie!"

Back when My Chem had already started to make a name for themselves via non-stop touring, Mikey had had the occasional hook up with Ernie. At least, it happened enough times to see how tonight was going to end. He didn’t put up a fight when Ernie grabbed his hand and dragged him to the dance floor.

Mikey closed his eyes, letting the beat move him, enjoying the combination of music and a warm body bouncing against his. Ernie's hands slid into Mikey's back pockets, the movement a little too sloppy. Mikey rested his hands on Ernie's hips, not caring about anything or anyone. He wanted to be anywhere but inside his head for just a little while longer.

Ernie leaned even closer, placing his head against Mikey's shoulder. The puffs of hot breaths against his neck annoyed Mikey. He had begun to pull away from Ernie, thinking that it was time to cool off a little, when a tall man tripped into them, sending Mikey and Ernie in opposite ways.

Mikey ended up half-smacking the ass of the guy next to him. "Sorry," he said, trying to get his balance right.

"What the hell, man?" Ernie spat at the man who had bumped into their dancing, his face slacked, as he swayed.

"I’m sorry," the man said, his eyes darting all over the place. "Someone pushed me. Let me buy you a drink?"

Ernie's goofy smile spoke volumes about how intoxicated he was. "Now that's more like it," he said, clapping the tall man on his back like they were buddies.

Mikey shrugged. "Sure. I mean, the song's over. Whatever. We've got a table over there," he said, pointing at the half-booth on the far right corner.

The tall man gave him a curt nod. He looked down for a couple of seconds. When he looked back at Mikey, his expression had softened. "And what would you like?"

"A Long Island Iced Tea," Ernie yelled before lurching toward Mikey's table.

"Midori Sour?" Mikey scratched his head. "Or, you know, anything like that."

The man narrowed his eyes. His side smile made him look slightly mischievous. "Is that what you've been drinking tonight?"

Mikey, grooving on the playful tone, squinted back. "Well, I'd tell you if I knew your name."

*****

Caught unawares by Way's flirting, Renfield stammered. "I'm Renfield. Um, Renfield Boucher." It was an old alias, but it was better to go with a name he wouldn’t have trouble remembering.

"Well, that's a mouthful," Way said, his eyebrows quirking up. "I'm Mikey," he said, extending his right hand out and clasping Renfield's in one smooth move, "Nice to meet you."

"Same here," Renfield answered. Way’s hands were unexpectedly rough against his. The contrast between the calluses on his fingertips and his overall lean physique sparked a familiar warmth near Renfield’s stomach. He tilted his head slightly to the left, the better to do a quick recon of the area, before addressing Way once again. "But you still haven't told me what you were drinking."

"Lemon drop?" The subject. Way. Mikey Way. _Mikey_ said.

"Lemon drop it is then," Renfield said. "I'll be back with your drinks." He waited until he was close to the bar to exhale. What the hell was he doing interacting with the subject? And flirting with him? Renfield frowned at himself. About the one good thing is that his reveal appeared to have spooked Kelly.

He ordered the drinks, his mind going around and around about Kelly showing up here of all places. Picking up the drinks, Renfield considered the Bolts must have been desperate to hire Kelly. As the most unstable mercs out there, Kelly's rep for thoroughness usually called for messier jobs than getting Valhalla from a civilian.

 _Maybe if I stick around, Kelly won't make his move_ , Renfield thought as he worked his way back to Mikey's table, careful not to trip or spill the drinks in his hands. "Here we go," he said, placing them on the table with excessive carefulness. "Where is your, um, _friend_?" he asked Mikey after finding him sitting by himself.

"I . . . don't really know," Mikey said, picking up his drink and taking a sip. "I lost him when we walked by the dance floor."

"Oh," Renfield said, not wanting to figure out why he was happy to hear that.

"Whatever." Mikey stirred his drink. "We were just hanging out, you know?"

"I guess," Renfield said. "So, Mikey, what do you do?

*****

Mikey couldn’t help doing a double take at Ren. Raising an eyebrow, he took a moment to study Ren’s face. For someone who was miles away from being Mikey’s type (tall when he preferred short and clean-cut when edginess usually made his head spin), he was well aware of how handsome Ren was. "Really? Um, I'm a musician." He grimaced inside. He could imagine what Frank would tell him: _Not everyone knows you’re a rock dude, asshole._

"Oh, so you're a rockstar, then?" Ren started to laugh. "I'm sorry. Yes, I know who you are, Mikey Way. My Chemical Romance, right?"

Both amused and slightly miffed at getting pranked by this Ren guy, Mikey made a face. "Funny har-har, Ren," he said. "What do _you_ do then? Are you, like, a cowboy crooner? Do you know any Conway Twitty?" Ren’s blush was delightful.

"I, um, I work for a cheese importer-exporter company." Ren frowned. "It's rather boring, but I get to travel all over the world so, it's got perks."

Mikey stared at Ren as he finished his drink, letting what he had just heard sink in. It didn't quite fit, his mind told him, but then, what did he know about what cheese business people looked like?

*****

"Anyway," Renfield said, leaning against the plush back of the booth they were sitting on, "it gives me the opportunity to sample many different cheeses."

"Huh," Mikey said, his sideways smile and playful tone making Renfield's insides flip every which way, "so you're _really_ passionate about cheese?"

Renfield considered his standing order for rare cheeses at Mr. Tucci’s deli before answering. "A good Ossau-Iraty can be a sublime experience, is all I'm saying."

Mikey scrunched up his face for a moment. "‘s long as it's not one of those super-stinky cheeses, then, yeah, I can see what you mean."

"Well," Renfield said, warming up to one of his favourite topics, "it’s the same way a great harmony might thrill you. At one point or another, your whole being gets lost in this sensation that never stops feeling good." This had to be the sloppiest flirting Renfield had ever done. A Valentine Operative he was not. It should have been embarrassing, but Mikey didn't seem put off by it.

"Touché, Ren" Mikey said. He yawned. "Do you have the time?"

"It's--oh, my, it's nearly two!" Renfield answered after checking his watch. "I had no idea it was so late."

"Man, I'm wiped out. Nice to meet you, Ren and thank you for the drink. I’m going to try get a cab back to my hotel." Mikey started to move when Renfield, going on pure impulse, put a hand on Mikey's right shoulder.

"I can--I mean, I can give you a ride if you'd like."

"All right." Mikey slid a wool jacket on. "I'm staying at the Elysian on, um, Rush and Walton. You know where that is?"

Without the now infamous leather jacket in sight, Renfield held on to a bubble of happiness. At worst, Vecchio would huff and puff because of the delay. But then, this ‘delay’ could be an excuse to spend some more time with Mikey. "I think it might be on the way to my hotel." Not for nothing he had studied the street maps as soon as his jet had touched down on O'Hare. "Let’s go."

"Cool." Mikey zipped up his jacket.

Renfield gave him a quiet smile. With Kelly targeting Mikey, he couldn't think of anything else but keeping him safe. There wasn't any need for blood to be spilled. Not that it mattered much, he would disappear from Mikey's life as soon as he got Valhalla back. He followed Mikey out into the cool night. "Nice jacket," he said as they made their way to Renfield’s car.

Mikey looked down, frowning for a second. "Oh, this. Yeah. I think my brother got it for me? He’s crazy about them."

Renfield hmmed and pretended not to admire how well it fitted Mikey. He buried his hands inside his pockets.

*****

"So, you're here on music business?" Renfield asked, hands on the steering wheel like he was doing his Driver’s Ed test.

Mikey looked out the window, not wanting to come off as a creep for staring at Ren. It was bad enough that he was getting a ride from the guy. Renfield's overall goofiness, well-hidden behind a casual facade, touched him. Making a random connection with someone new was something that he hadn't experienced in a long time. "Hmm? Oh, no. Well, kind of? A friend of mine is playing here tomorrow night. Leathermouth. You ever heard of them?"

"Can't say I have. Sorry."

Mikey scratched his hair. "No matter. I also want to visit a friend of mine who's recovering from wrist surgery. And then, I've got to head East." _And see what I can save from the wreckage_ , he thought. "Whatever."

"Ah, here we are," Renfield said as he parked the car in front of the hotel.

Peering at the fancy building, Mikey thought of his empty room. The wave of loneliness that rose up inside was huge. "Uh, yeah." He bit the inside of his mouth, the urge to not break the easy camaraderie he had gotten on with Renfield growing brighter in his mind. He turned to Renfield. "Hey, are you doing anything important tomorrow?"

Renfield eyed him, brow furrowed, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Mikey tried to ignore the voice in his head that told him he was an idiot for asking this guy out.

"I have an early meeting, but I'm available after eleven," Renfield finally answered.

"Cool. Thought I could take you to a very early dinner," Mikey said, his face hot, "And then, you could come with me to see Leathermouth. You know, pay you back for the drink and the ride?"

"Sure," Renfield answered in a rush of excitement. He was practically beaming.

Mikey exhaled with relief. He wiggled his cellphone out of his tight pants. "Let me have your phone number."

"Only if you give me yours too," Renfield said as he searched for his phone.

Mikey hoped it wasn’t weird to shake hands after asking Ren out on a semi-date. He stepped out of the car and waved good-bye.

*****

It took every ounce of concentration to remain calm while exchanging numbers with Mikey. Renfield's heart kept thumping hard. He wasn’t blind to the fact that he’d found Mikey attractive from the very beginning. _Not for nothing you kept staring at his headshot after you were done with the dossier_ , his traitorous conscience told him.

Taking a right turn at the corner, he drove extra-carefully the half block to the street parking lot, thankful that it was late enough for the streets to be empty. The last thing he needed was to crash.

He texted Vecchio as soon as he was back in his room:

_Made contact w/subj. OF IMPORTANCE: Kelly targeting subj._

His cellphone was blinking by the time he came back into his room from getting ready for bed. Vecchio's reply was short:

_Call tomorrow at a decent hour._

*****

The next day came too soon for Mikey. Too hyped up about how things had turned out during a casual outing, he’d fallen asleep sometime in the neighborhood of 4 a.m. It had taken a full bladder for him to shake awake. His phone blinked 12:00. Mikey scowled at the hour before making his way to the bathroom.

 _One day in the city and I'm already making pseudo-dates with random dudes_ , Mikey thought while he brushed his teeth. He'd liked Ren, whose dorky behavior was a nice balance to how handsome he was. Though he thought they should have kissed when Ren dropped him off, he also found it different and exciting to see what lay ahead for the two of them.

The first chords of Black Flag’s _Modern Man_ started to play. _Frank_. Mikey rinsed out his mouth and returned to the bedroom. His phone was shaking it up on the nightstand.

"Hey," Frank said, his voice gravelly like it was every morning.

"What’s up?" Mikey said after yawning. Maybe he could go back to sleep after this call. Not for nothing he’d kept to vampire hours whenever he could.

"Are you ready to rock or are you _ready_ to rock?" Frank’s rough chuckle heightened the cheesiness of his words.

"Hmm. Let’s go with ready to rock. Even though we’re not in 1986, dude," Mikey answered, rolling his eyes in amusement. He sat on the edge of his unmade bed. "Show went OK last night?"

"Yeah," Frank said after taking a gulp of what probably was his first cup of coffee. "This tour is leaving a trail of bodies in every city we stop at. Kids are _hungry_ for good music."

"Right, ‘cause your regular and very unpopular band plays total crap." Mikey placed his cell phone between his left shoulder and his head. He cracked his knuckles, wishing he was within arm’s reach of a cup of coffee himself.

"Aww, you jealous, Mikeyway? Because, last I heard, you were on a sabbatical. Or having your own tour of every Starbucks store in the US. Nothing but downtime."

"Right, like you didn’t need it too after the Parade was over ," Mikey replied, holding his phone with his left hand while he ran a hand through his hair.

"Nope, I don’t. But that’s because I’m a shark. You know, can’t really stop," Frank said. "Not all of us have to take it easy in our old age. Unlike other people whose name start with an ‘m’ and end in ‘y’. Anyway, you’re coming to the concert, right?"

Mikey cleared his throat. If there was a time to bring up Ren it was now. His hesitation only served to remind him who he was talking to.

Frank coughed. "Mikes, you there? Hello?"

"Uh, yeah," Mikey answered. Maybe Frank wouldn’t make a big deal about what he was about to say. "Erm, you think you can put me and a guest on tonight’s list?" He chewed on a hangnail, waiting for an answer, wondering if it was too late to take it back.

"You want a _plus 1_ for tonight? Oh, this is good." Even without being face-to-face, Mikey could see Frank’s eyebrows jumping up.

Mikey sighed as quietly as he could. It really would’ve been too much of a stretch to think that Frank’s curiosity wouldn’t be shaken awake. Perhaps if he downplayed the whole thing . . . "It’s just someone who’s never seen Leathermouth live."

"Which is a real tragedy," Frank said mockingly. The click of a lighter and a soft inhale were the only sounds for a moment. "Hey, is it anyone I know?"

Sometimes Frank would be too nosy for his own good. "No, don’t think so," Mikey replied in a casual tone.

"Oh? So who’s this--hold on," Frank said. There were muffled voices for a couple of seconds. "Shit. I forgot I’ve got an interview in, like, twenty minutes. Tell you what: I’m totally expecting you and your mystery date to hang with me after the show. Deal?"

"Deal," Mikey answered, half-scowling. Much as he loved Frank, it was frustrating to see how he would do the whole protective thing almost as strongly as Gerard.

The faint memory of the time he introduced Frank to Alicia pushed forward in his mind. Back then, Frank had behaved on account of Alicia being a woman. Not that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to tease him as soon as Alicia had gone home. The best he could hope this time around for was for Frank to refrain from asking Ren too many embarrassing questions.

"Awesome," Frank replied, a little too cheerfully for Mikey’s liking. "Gotta go. See you tonight."

"’kay, bye." Mikey hung up and wondered what he was getting into. He checked the time--Ren must be done with whatever meeting he had scheduled by now--before sending a text:

_was thinking ‘bout korean. nothing fancy. good food + (i hope) good company. then, the world’s loudest concert at 8ish. pick me up @ 6? mikeyway._

He considered calling Gerard until he remembered that Gerard would be halfway through his meeting with the Dark Horse people. Instead, he texted him "good luck" and put his phone back on the nightstand. Trying to decide what to do next, the blinking light of the room phone caught his attention. According to the hotel’s concierge, he could call the Front Desk to have his (now clean) laundry sent to his room.

Today was looking better and better.

*****

Renfield waited until after breakfast to contact Vecchio. A part of him was embarrassed that he had had pancakes when it was nearly one in the afternoon. On the other hand, he’d been exhausted by the time he slipped between the covers. Though slightly fitful, the previous night’s sleep had ultimately been necessary. Traveling across time zones had never come easy to him. His general dislike for pills had kept him from taking a sleeping pill or two.

He dialed Vecchio’s private line once again, more out of convenience rather than apprehension over going through ‘official channels’.

Vecchio answered as soon as Renfield finished keying in his code.

"We're thinking of sending back up," Vecchio said, his tone flat and business-like. "Kelly is--well, you know how much of a timebomb he can be."

"I think that keeping things as they are is the better option," Renfield said, trying not to bristle at Vecchio’s apparent lack of confidence. "You and I know that Kelly is the opposite of low-key. I’ll see him coming. I'll be prepared for anything he does, Vecchio. Promise."

"We’ll keep a team on standby then. Never hurts to be ready," Vecchio grumbled.

"Thank you," Renfield said. Much as he hated to think it, there really wouldn’t be much a reason for him to stick around Chicago past tonight.

"You’re welcome, Turnbull." Vecchio sighed. "So, now that you’ve met the subject, how close are you to getting Valhalla back?"

Renfield poured the remaining coffee in his cup while he pondered on the day ahead of him. "He wasn’t wearing it last night. I’m thinking I would have to get invited into his room to see if he brought it with him. Let’s hope he did. After all it’s the only place I can think Volpe might have done his little sleight of hand thing."

"OK, get into that room then, Turnbull. I really don’t care nor want to hear how."

Despite the fact that they weren’t face-to-face or even teleconferencing, Renfield had no trouble ‘seeing’ Vecchio’s monumental eyeroll. Not exactly sure on whether Vecchio was joshing him or not, he opted to reply a simple "Understood."

"You’re meeting with the subject later today," Vecchio said. It wasn’t a question.

"Yes. Mik--the subject invited me to dinner."

"Huh, never thought I’d see the day you’d be a Valentine Operative, Turnbull," Vecchio said casually. "Report after your dinner."

Renfield cleared his throat, biting back the fact that Mikey had invited him to a show as well. "Will do. Good-bye, Vecchio."

"’bye. Oh, and Turnbull?"

"Yeah?"

"Don’t bring him flowers. The subject’s allergic to pollen," Vecchio said before hanging up.

Renfield exhaled a quiet ‘oh’, placing his phone on the bed and trying to find his balance. The combined excitement of going to the club and meeting Mikey--no point on thinking of him as 'the subject' anymore--the night before and feeling like things were back on track for his Assignment made him feel buoyant. His self-preservation instinct didn't like any part of what was going on one bit. Dr. Kuzma, Renfield though, would have a field day with that kernel of realization.

Shaking his head, he spread the contents of his carry-on all over his bed. Mikey's text had mentioned enjoying Korean for dinner followed by "some of the loudest music" out there. Maybe he would buy earplugs on the way to picking Mikey up.

He studied his clothes, inwardly grateful that the summer was behind them. His black sweater and his softest pair of jeans would help him look less stiff at the rock concert. His dark brown lightweight wool jacket would help him conceal a secondary weapon. No precaution was too small in regards to Kelly loose in the city. He frowned when he remembered the black eyes that Kowalski had sported during the last run in with Kelly.

His stomach twisted when he remembered the way Kelly had oogled at Mikey and his dancing companion the night before. The look in Kelly’s dark brown eyes was predatory in a way that disturbed Renfield much more than he would’ve expected. There was always the hope that getting Valhalla back _and_ protecting Mikey wouldn’t lead to further complications.

*****

Sitting inside Little Seoul several hours later, Mikey stifled a giggle at the absurd realization that this restaurant reminded him of Brisbane.

"Something wrong?" Ren poked his head from behind the menu in front of him.

Mikey shook his head. "I just--I just had this, like, moment of total déjà vu, you know? I mean, I was in Australia about a year ago and now I’m here and will probably end up ordering the very same dish. Never really thought of myself as a creature of routine. See anything you like?" What the hell was he _babbling_ about? He tried his hardest not to hide behind the large menu. It had been so long since he'd gone on a proper date. God, he felt like such a dork. At least he had gone against his original idea of wearing one of his Mikey Fucking Way t-shirts. Dressed in (surprise!) a black Midtown hoodie and one of his nicest pairs of black jeans, he hoped Ren could see he’d made an effort to look casually good.

"I haven’t had the chance to visit Australia yet. But I did spend about a week in New Zealand. Very interesting place," Ren said as he closed his menu. "Hmm, I think there’s a dish or two I might try. One could say the variety almost makes up for the disappointing lack of cheese."

Ren's pout was a killer. Mikey had the feeling that Ren had been a cute child.

"Man, you do _love_ your dairy products, don't you? We should’ve totally gone for Italian." Mikey lowered his eyes for a moment, scratching right above his right ear. He wished he hadn’t been so clueless in picking a restaurant.

"Don't let my enthusiasm for cheese make it seem like I'm not planning to enjoy myself," Ren answered, eyes smiling. "I'm always open for a culinary experience."

"Cool." Mikey slid a strand of hair behind his ear. He had to calm down. So far, Ren had been able to run along with the conversation no matter how off the tracks it’d get. "I hope you're just as unbiased about music," he said as he called the waiter over.

Ren nodded at him, keeping quiet until after Mikey had ordered for the two of them. "Your text had something about getting ready for something very loud. Who are we seeing?"

"Leathermouth."

"Oh, I'm sorry." The corners of Ren’s mouth sagged a little. "I'm not familiar with his music."

Mikey smiled. "It's a hardcore punk band. I like 'em a lot. And, you know, not just ‘cause Frank is the lead singer."

"Who's Frank?" Ren frowned.

"Best friend. From Jersey like me. He's also in My Chem. This is, like, his side gig. I think he’d go crazy if he didn't have an outlet of some kind. He's, like, this constant mass of energy almost always. Well, actually, there was this one time he got really sick. Ended up going onstage all hooked up to an oxygen tank. It was very weird to see him stand still for most of the concert."

"Sounds like he’s dedicated to music," Ren said. "And, from what I know, music, like any of the arts, is a demanding mistress."

"Doing what you love for a living eases the weight of the boring parts." Mikey shrugged. "I think most musicians would agree with what you said though. It’s, like, the music takes people to this really amazing place and the musicians are the conduit between that and the audience. And that takes a lot out of you. But it’s also its own kind of rad. The whole thing is kind of, I dunno, magical really."

Ren nodded enthusiastically. This he understood. "I saw that firsthand one time I got tickets to see Tracy Jenkins. Well," he coughed. "I mean, I was lucky enough to ‘score’ the tickets."

Mikey hmmed. He had no idea who this Tracy person was, but music was music. "Oh, yeah?"

"It was like--like a dream come true. Yes, I know how clichéd that sounds. But she’s _such_ a talented artist. Her songs are full of hope and strength and I--I," Ren stuttered before taking a sip of water. "I love country music. It's a little atypical, perhaps, for someone like me, who was raised in a multi-cultural city instead than at the countryside. But I can’t help but be swayed by the poetic angle often found in that musical genre. The harmonies. I mean, they speak to my soul."

Mikey grinned at seeing Ren literally wax poetic about something other than cheese. He liked seeing the obvious passion his not-date had for something that was completely foreign to Mikey himself. "Can’t say I know much about country. Well, other than Dolly Parton, maybe. Johnny Cash is cool too. But, um, the rest is sort of blur?"

Ren blushed. He picked up his glass and drank some more water.

Though not entirely uncomfortable, Mikey wasn’t quite ready to have the conversation stall. Some of Dr. Allen’s words about the mechanics of talking to others stirred in Mikey’s mind. "Sounds like you might know a thing or two about music. Do you play any instruments?"

*****

Inwardly mortified by his rambling, Renfield looked around the restaurant, waiting to see if he could think of something else to say. Sometimes he forgot himself when he spoke about his favourite genre. Poor Francesca had been on the receiving end of many conversations about the different subgenres in that musical style. It wasn’t until his gaze shifted to his dining companion that Renfield picked up on the fact that Mikey had asked him a question. "I'm sorry?"

"I was asking you if you play any instruments." Mikey quirked his mouth.

More than anything in the world, the one thing Renfield wanted to do was to kiss the grin away. He blinked, attempting to focus back on the conversation, such as it was. "I can strum the guitar in a fairly decent manner. For a non-professional, I mean."

Mikey opened his hazel eyes pretty wide. "That’s great! Acoustic or electric? Ever written any songs? How did you learn?"

Renfield waited until the waiter had finished serving their dinner to answer. "Well, I bought a Fender CD-140 one lonely afternoon in a small town in West Virginia many years ago. It was used and I knew close to nothing about guitars. But I had an afternoon to kill before my flight and, after seeing it, I couldn’t stop thinking about that guitar. So, I walked into the music store at the very last minute and became the owner of a slightly beat-up acoustic guitar.

Now, I have to admit that the guitar sat in my home for a couple of weeks. I was, um, traveling and couldn’t take it with me." Renfield looked down at his food, shaking his head after imagining himself dragging his guitar during the Cuzco Assignment. "But, about a month later, Muddy Johnson sat me down one afternoon and taught me the basics. He let me lose after that."

"That's so awesome!" Mikey’s grin was open and bright. "My family isn't really musical. Not, like, Frank or Ray's. Growing up, Gee, that's my older brother, and I were pretty crazy about music though. We wore out a few Iron Maiden and The Smiths' tapes from constantly listening to them. Drove our mom bonkers because, shit, there wasn't much to do outside so we would play the same albums for hours."

"You play . . . ?"

"Bass guitar," Mikey answered. "Took to it very quickly. Well, I kinda had to, you know?"

"Why that and not, I don't know, guitar or drums or singing?" Renfield took a bite of his _dalk galbi_ .

"OK, _obviously_ , you've never heard me sing." Mikey snorted after swallowing some kind of beef stew. "I can _almost_ carry a tune? Well, not really, so it’s better if I don’t try outside of, like, the shower. I've heard me singing in a studio. About the best thing I can say about that is that I’m glad those recordings got erased. Trust me, your ears would thank me."

"And so you picked up the bass because?"

"Because it looked like the easiest thing to play after drums. The thing is Matt, that was our first drummer, was great. So, I practiced until my fingers bled. But, most of all, I learned so that I could be in My Chem with Gee and our friends. Being part of that was important. I auditioned and, though my skills were so-so, I got in."

"And now you're here."

Mikey hmmed. "Ironically, enjoying _not_ performing for a while. Touring can break you down." He checked his watch. "Concert should be starting any minute now. How about we get going?"

"Oh, yes," Renfield said enthusiastically before he looks at his own watch. He grimaced. "We’ll be arriving late. Will that be a problem?"

"Don’t worry about it," Mikey said, signaling the waiter for the check. "Leathermouth’s the next-to-last-band in the lineup. Plus we’re on the list."

*****

The waiter placed the bill on the table. Mikey lunged for it at the same time Ren did. "Oh, no, no, no," he said, narrowing his eyes at Ren as he slid his right hand forward. "This me thanking _you_ for last night, remember?"

Ren wasn’t budging. "I couldn’t possibly--I mean, erm . . ."

"Besides, you can, I don’t know, repay me by, like, taking me to the museum or something tomorrow." Mikey kept moving his hand until the tips of his fingers softly bumped against Ren’s. "Come on, the sooner we leave, the sooner I can begin to expand your musical world."

"Well, when you put it that way," Ren said, pulling his hand back. "I'll make sure to find an interesting art exhibit or two for tomorrow's outing."

"Cool." Mikey waved the waiter over and handed him his credit card. "So, have you ever listened to any of My Chem’s music?" He hoped that hadn’t sounded narcissistic. It’d been obvious Ren had, at the very least, heard about the band.

"Hmm?" Ren said distractedly as he checked his phone. His expression grew serious before softening up. "I liked _Disenchanted_ , erm, the few times I played it on my iPod."

"Funny," Mikey said, signing the receipt before getting up, "I’d think you’d dig _Early Sunsets_."

"It’s a question of tighter melodies, that’s all."

"Everyone’s a critic, huh?" Mikey winked at Ren while he held the door open for him.

Traffic was fairly light for a Wednesday night. Ren drove, his eyes focused on the world outside the car, throwing out a ‘hmm’ whenever Mikey told him where to turn.

Mikey fired off a quick ‘we’re on our way’ text to Frank, not expecting a reply. Being unable to get away from the pre-show buzz was something he understood completely. "You want to turn left on the light after this one," he said, when his phone trilled an incoming text.

_cool. fresh meat. f._

The gentle snark in Frank's words did little to reassure him about the evening ahead. Mikey put his reply on hold when Gerard sent a text too:

_frank says you’re taking a DATE to his concert? why am i the last person to hear about this? >:(_

Biting his smirk, Mikey tapped a quick answer:

_it slipped my mind? (frank has a big mouth)_

Gerard’s next text had a strong "I'm your older brother" vibe to it:

_i want all the 411 on your mystery date. email me later, ‘kay? (frank’s looking out for you.)_

Still mulling on what he was going to say, Mikey sat up with a start after Gerard fired off a last piece of brotherly advice:

_remember to wear protection. ;)_

Mikey grunted. Nothing liked an older brother to make you feel awkward. The phone slipped from his hands just then, flipping through the air, hitting the glove compartment and falling onto Mikey’s lap. _Yup, my third name is Mr. Suave_ , he thought as his face grew hot.

"Are you OK?" Ren watched him for a few seconds before looking back at the road.

"Um, yeah." Mikey blinked. "This is what happens when I don’t play the bass for a long time. My hands become claws." He wiggled his fingers, making an effort to feel less mortified.

*****

Renfield kept his expression bland. He wasn’t about to comment on what had just happened. Not when the memory of his tragic attempt at learning parkour was still fresh in his mind nearly two years later. "Oh? I thought all musicians had to practice daily."

Mikey rubbed his hands on his jeans. "I've been traveling so much. Checking it in when I go to a new city can be a real hassle. Flying is stressful enough. In any case, I'll pop into a music store or two if I'm itching to stretch my fingers. Haven't had the chance to do so lately." He shrugged. "Anyway, um, they're probably somewhere in an NYC storage place? Alicia, um, . . . I know I left one at Frank’s place right after the tour was over."

Much as he wanted to know about Alicia and the reason _why_ she wasn’t here, Renfield chose to sidestep his curiosity. Vecchio’s earlier message worked as a great deterrent:

_Back up team in site. Use them if you need them._

It had been an unwelcomed reminder of what this whole outing was about. However, nobody--not even the Agency itself--could keep him from enjoying what little time he had with Mikey.

"The venue’s on the next block," Mikey said, putting his cellphone in his front pocket.

Finding a good place to park turned into a mini-adventure of its own. They found a space in between a dirty van with stickers in the shape of marijuana leaves on the back windows and a little blue Mazda Miata after going around the block three times.

Some of Renfield's earlier enthusiasm faded away once he got a good look of the crowd. Among the mix of fashionably hip, 70s punk and extremely casualwear everyone else wore, he looked like someone’s very square cousin or worse, someone’s _father_.

He snapped out of his worrying as soon as he and Mikey walked up to the line. A loud mumble traveled the young crowd. Some of the people took photos on their phones.

"I swear I don’t do this all the time. It's so fucking clichéd. Please don't think I'm a douch-y kind of guy," Mikey told him before he stepped up to the bouncer and mentioned he was on the list.

"Won't hold it against you," Renfield said absentmindedly. This Assignment was the most surreal one in his entire career at the Agency.

They squeezed through a short hallway, bypassing the cashier after Mikey flashed his neon pink wristband at the bored-looking young woman, and coming out into a medium-sized space where half the people were bouncing to the very loud and hard rock the band onstage played for them. The other half was scattered into small groups, hanging around the bar area and talking excitedly to each other.

Standing inside a room that reeked of cigarette smoke and sweat, Renfield was ready to _reconsider_ the idea of learning about new musical genres.

"I think it’ll be best if we hang over there," Mikey said, taking a hold of Renfield’s hand and pulling him through the overexcited crowd to a freestanding table near the bar. "Looks like all they’re serving is beer and bottled water. Want something?"

"Water please." Renfield allowed himself to relax a little. The area where they were at was pretty far from any speaker.

Mikey nodded and started walking. Renfield stared at him, studying his casual gait and calm face, as he approached the bar. Up at the front, a band all dressed in white got on the stage. The majority of the people on the floor rushed forward as a short, stocky man started to scream into a microphone.

Renfield couldn't take his eyes off the man even though he had no idea what the man was singing or (better said) yelling. Halfway through the third song, the man began to slap his own face before falling to the floor and rolling sideways. Meanwhile, the rest of the band amplified that sense of urgency by playing as fast and as loud as they possibly could. _Intense would be the word for it_ , Renfield thought somewhat amused. _Shocking would be another._

"Ren, meet Leathermouth."

Renfield jumped a little when he felt Mikey’s breath on his ear. His rational mind knew that Mikey _had_ to get close to him if he wanted to be heard above the noise. Another part of him wanted to think that Mikey used the noise situation to scoot closer to him. "Interesting music," he said.

"Here you go," Mikey said, stepping half a foot away and handing him a bottle of water. He perked up. "Oh, that’s one of my favorite songs."

"What's it called?"

"It's, um, _5th Period Massacre_ ," Mikey answered, a shy smile on his lips. He mouthed the words, nodding his head to the angry beat and glancing at Renfield every so often. "Man, Frank is _really_ wound up tonight."

Renfield jerked his chin towards the stage. "So the singer . . .?"

"Yup, that's Frank." Mikey's grin got bigger. "Pretty cool, huh?"

Renfield leaned closer to him. "It's _nothing_ like your band. Erm, the music, I mean."

"Hmm, I dunno. Everyone's taste is so different. I think that's what makes My Chem unique. Anyway, Frank's always been the punkier one."

"This next song is our last one for the night," Frank said, his voice a little scratchy. "I'm dedicating it to my buddies: the dorky ones who like zombies. This song is called _Bodysnatchers 4 Ever_."

Mikey's downturned mouth baffled Renfield.

"Imagine it's 2 in the morning and you're the only person still up other than the bus driver," Mikey said when the song was over. "You're homesick even though there's _no one_ waiting for you at home." He scrunched up the sleeves of his sweater up, his eyes tracking the band movements as they walked off the stage. "So you start watching a movie about a guy finding and losing the love of his life while battling zombies. And, right around the time when you think that the loneliness is about to _devour_ your heart, one of your best friends sits with you. This friend is usually all over the place, like a monkey-octopuss hybrid. But, at this moment, he's quietly giving you some of his strength. You realize it's OK to feel a little _broken_ that late into the night."

"Mikey." Renfield slipped his right hand over Mikey's left. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Enough dramatics," Mikey said, winking at Renfield at the same time he squeezed back. "I think it's time you meet one of my comrades."

"Can't wait," Renfield said, doing his darnest to pretend that meeting one of Mikey's closest friends could be a stress-free experience.

*****

"Fair warning: Frank's crazy, but he's good people." Ren's nervous smile worried Mikey. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been interested in someone. Though too new to even think of a loaded word such as "commitment", he and Ren got along fine. The _last_ thing he wanted was for things to get fucked up before either of them had a chance to see where they'd end up.

Mikey let go of Ren's hand, feeling inwardly pleased at the blink-and-you-miss-it way Ren's lower lip stuck out, and pointed at the backstage entrance. "Come on."

Unlike the San Fran show, people left the venue as soon as the lights came up. Mikey led Ren through the thinning crowd.

"Mikey fucking Way!" Frank crossed the room. "Feels like it's been _forever_ since I last saw you."

"Hello, stranger," Mikey said, hugging his friend. He locked his knees when Frank practically threw all of his weight on him as he stretched up and peeked over Mikey's shoulders for a moment.

Frank let go of Mikey and gave Ren an interested once-over. "What are _you_ doing running around with the likes of this skinny fucker?" He said, pointing at Mikey.

"I--um. I am . . ." Ren's stammer made Mikey cringe inside.

Mikey arched an eyebrow. "Ren, this is Frank, lead singer for Leathermouth, rhythm guitarist for My Chem and occasional annoying dude." Turning around, he glared at Frank for a second before continuing the introductions. "This is Ren, cheese importer and a country music fan."

"Cheese, huh?" Frank nodded solemnly. "Wish I could eat the stuff. Hey, by the way, Mikey, I've got a surprise for you!" Taking a hold of his wrist, Frank pulled him through a group of people until they came face to face with Bob.

"Holy shit!" Bob said, wrapping his arms around Mikey tight.

A knot came undone inside him as he hugged Bob back.

"Dude, last thing I heard is that you were on your way to Montana or some shit," Bob said. Even the thick beard couldn't hide his smile.

"It was Oklahoma, actually." Mikey scratched his nose. "Making my way across the country."

"Bet it drove Alicia crazy," Bob said casually. He made a face. "Um, or not. Sorry."

Mikey picked up on the fact that he was scowling without actually meaning to. He punched Bob softly on his shoulder. "No, man, that was over _before_ we went to Australia and it just, you know, remained over. It's not a big deal. Anyway, I texted you, like, a fucking million times when I got here, dude! Do I owe you money or something? 'cause I didn't even know you were coming to this show!"

Bob showed Mikey his wrists. "Was finishing my rehab. Besides, Mikeyway, I have to let my wrists heal if we're going into the studio in less than a year. That meant not doing a lot of repetitive movement." He turned his head to the side. "Oh, I’m sorry. I'm Bob. Hope you forgive this dude for being socially inept," he said as he gestured at Mikey.

"I figured this was a happy reunion and didn't want to interrupt," Ren said calmly. "I understand the tour's been over for a--"

Frank cut in. "Dude, he deals in cheese!" He gave two thumbs up and went to the catering table.

"Really?" Bob opened his eyes really big. "You know, we were in Holland earlier this year and got there a few hours earlier than expected. So, while these fuckers slept," he pointed at Mikey and Frank, "Ray and I walked around the area near the hotel. We found this hole-in-the-wall café and I actually got to experience some really good _Appenzeller_. That and a _nice_ bottle of red. The show that night went smooth as fuck."

Ren lit up like someone had taken him to cheese heaven. "Oh, what a rare opportunity! Was it the extra-aged variety?"

"Fuck if I know, dude. But it was definitely a _sublime_ experience," Bob answered, rubbing his chin appreciatively.

Mikey couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Bob talking so animatedly about something that wasn't Black Sabbath, videogames or the idea of a world without cameras. He kept looking from Ren to Bob and back to Ren as the two continued their discussion on all things cheese.

After a while, it was clear that they wouldn't talk about anything else--Ren being an expert on the subject and Bob revealing his surprise!cheese ninja knowledge. Mikey reined in the urge to stomp off when Ren started talking about _Chura kampo_ (whatever _that_ was.) Instead, he sat next to Frank--who wasn't _wooing_ Mikey's non-date with dairy talk.

"Did _you_ know Bob was a cheese aficionado?" Mikey knew he was sulking, but seeing Ren beaming at Bob's words ate at him.

Frank shook his head no and took out his pack of cigarettes. "I've always told you guys that Bob's a ninja. Sound techs, former or current, are, like, the Google of the music world."

"That doesn't even make sense, Frankie."

"Stop being a doofus, Mikeyway," Frank said, flicking Mikey's forehead, his unlit cigarette dangling on the left corner of his mouth. "Bob isn't out to 'steal your man'. He's just making conversation, trying to make Ren feel welcomed and shit. In any case, it's not as if Ren's totally ignoring you."

Mikey gave Frank a confused look. "Huh?"

"Dude keeps looking this way every so often." Frank flicked his lighter and took a deep inhale. "You really like him, huh?" He said, twisting his mouth and exhaling a puff of white smoke.

"He's different and very cool in a dorky way." Mikey pulled the hem of his sweater.

Frank eyeballed him and then Ren. "Oh, Mikey," he said, ashing his cigarette into an empty can of beer he held between his legs. "You know, we've got a free day tomorrow. Maybe Bob, Ren, you and I can, you know, hang out and shit."

"Sounds cool," Mikey answered.

"By the way," Frank said as he exhaled, "how did the two of you crazy kids meet?"

"So I went A&K last night . . ." Mikey sat back and started talking, glancing at Ren and smiling whenever Ren caught him watching.

*****

The conversation with Bob was stimulating enough for Renfield not to notice when Mikey sat somewhere else. Very few people he met were as passionate about cheese as he was. In taking the opportunity to enjoy talking about Manchego vs. Brie, however, he'd alienated Mikey. _What a display of bad manners_ , he reprimanded himself.

Bob covered his mouth when he yawned. "I've been up since really early. Think I'm going to say my good-byes."

"Oh, yes. I have an early meeting tomorrow," Renfield said, making a show of checking the time and looking a little worried. "I'm going to see if Mikey's ready to go." He waited until Bob made his way to Frank before approaching Mikey.

Renfield sat next to him. "I--ahem--that's to say. . ."

"You found someone you could speak 'cheese' with. I get it. It's no biggie." Mikey rubbed the fingers of his right hand over the tattoo on his left forearm.

"You do?" The last thing Renfield had expected was to see Mikey at ease about the way the evening had turned. It lit a fire inside of him, a need to stop tip-toeing around whatever he and Mikey had. "That's quite noble of you."

"Sit me next to someone who knows Britpop." Mikey winked at him. "I'm happy my friends like you."

"They're interesting." Feeling bold after Mikey bumped his shoulder against his, Renfield pushed a little. "We could," he cleared his throat, "call it a night."

Mikey licked his lips, the hazel in his eyes turned slightly darker. "I like the way you think, Ren."

The drive to Mikey's hotel was a fast one.

Renfield waited until they were inside Mikey's room to see Mikey come undone. The wait had been nothing short of torturous yet, at the same time, the anticipation of what was to come made Renfield hyper-aware of every sensation. He followed Mikey into the room, grabbing his wrists and pressing him against the door.

"I just. I. Um." Mikey bit his lower lip in a fit of _sudden_ shyness that banked the fire in Renfield's body.

Renfield tilted his head down, a quiet smile on his lips. "Hmm?" He moved in close enough for their mouths brushed against each other.

Mikey, Renfield was happy to discover, had the most kissable mouth ever. He increased the pressure, his whole body vibrating with want and need, until everything that wasn’t related to Mikey and his lips and hands and smell faded to the background. He relished the way Mikey grabbed him, making him feel his presence without being pushy.

He liked the playfulness in Mikey's kiss, the way he felt so far gone in his mind every time Mikey slid a hand down his back and up again; the solidness in the here and now. Placing brief kisses along Mikey's jaw, the scratchiness of Mikey's nascent beard created a delicious frisson Renfield couldn't get enough of. It was a drawn out tease he couldn't stop wanting.

"We could, like, go to my room," Mikey said in a low tone when Renfield started to lick his collarbone.

"We could," Renfield slurred in between gliding his tongue on Mikey's skin. He stopped himself before they ended up naked and _vertical_. "Lead on," he said, adjusting himself when Mikey began to walk backwards to the bedroom, his eyes reflecting Renfield's lust back to him.

Mikey slid out of his hoodie without a hint of self-consciousness. Renfield was happy to enjoy the striptease until Mikey began to undo his pants. "Here, let me," he said, staring into his eyes at the same time one of his hands slid down to the bulge between Mikey's legs. He kept his touch light at first, his fingers squeezing along the length of Mikey's cock with enough pressure to feel him thrusting forward a couple of times.

"Ren--you gotta--ngh!" Mikey kissed Renfield to distraction. Which, according to Renfield, it wouldn't do. He had a plan.

Divesting Mikey of his jeans proved to be slightly difficult due to the tight cut of the pants. After much wriggling from Mikey's part and not-so-gentle-coaxing from Renfield's hands, Mikey was finally naked from the waist down.

"Like what you see?" Mikey laid back and up on his elbows, his dark brown hair swept off his face. "Because if you do, maybe you should do something about it."

Renfield didn't need to be told twice. But he also wanted this to last, to be memorable for the both of them. He kneeled on the bed, still wearing most of his clothes, and lowered himself in between Mikey's thighs. He kissed a path up to where Mikey's cock was, hard and dark red. Renfield held back a whimper when he swiped the cockhead and tasted Mikey for the first time.

Mikey tilted his head back then, groaning when Renfield started to suck him slowly. Placing his hands on Mikey's hips, Renfield accommodated himself until he found an angle with which he could swallow more of Mikey's cock.

"Fuck, Ren. That--that feels so good. I--I just . . . fffuck!" Mikey laid down, his hips moving on their own accord.

Soon, Mikey's hands held him down. Pleased at the reaction he'd provoked, Renfield let go of Mikey's delicious cock and licked the shaft up and down a few times, following the same trail as the main vein. He curled the tip of his tongue into a point and focused most of his attention on the underside of the cockhead, stopping only when he thought the sensations had begun to grow too intense for Mikey to hold back his climax.

He slid Mikey's cock into his mouth once again, swallowing down until he felt the cockhead bump against his throat. Feeling the tug of Mikey's fingers, Renfield hmmed as he bobbed his head with gusto.

Above him, Mikey keened. "Ren, I'm going to--"

Renfield made sure to swallow Mikey's come to its very last drop.

*****

Someone was knocking on the door. Ren, still wearing his pants and sweater, snored softly. Not feeling sure of whether or not he'd left the "do not disturb" sign on the door, Mikey grumbled as he rolled out of bed and put on his jeans. The blinking light of his cellphone caught his attention. He picked it up and scrolled through a couple of Frank's texts (dirty limericks) before pocketing his phone and padding softly into the living room.

"Room service," someone said following a discrete knock.

Mikey groaned. Food was the _last_ thing in his mind right now. Gauging by the way Renfield’s bedrom had left him practically comatose the night before, Mikey was looking forward to a repeat performance. _Just as soon as I send this bozo away_ , he thought when he opened the door. "We didn’t order--" he snapped his mouth shut as soon as he looked at the bald guy dressed like a reject from a Matrix movie.

" _Oh_ ," the bald guy said with disappointment before grabbing Mikey’s left wrist. "You'll have to do."

"What?" Mikey said, struggling before he felt something like a mosquito bite on his forearm.

And then, an unexpected darkness swallowed him whole.

"Wake up, sunshine," a guy said while slapping Mikey’s face. "He’s not waking up, Johnny."

Mind still fuzzy, Mikey first tried to keep both eyes open before giving into the soothing numbness of whatever was in his veins. Whatever he'd been injected with was good stuff. He would've paid top dollar for something this strong back when he was using.

The first guy was talking to someone else, but Mikey could barely follow the conversation.

"--here, give him a whiff of this," someone said. A rank smell similar to ammonia filled Mikey’s nostrils. He coughed best as he could with some kind of tape over his mouth. It wasn’t until he tried to stand up only to realize that he was tied to a chair.

"Oh, look, he’s alive," a guy who looked like the Joker’s third cousin spat.

"Yeah, but he doesn’t have it," the bald guy Mikey remembered from the hotel said. He had what was left of Mikey’s cellphone in one hand and a scary-looking knife on the other. "Best to make him talk," bald guy hissed, throwing the smashed phone behind him. He waved the knife in Mikey’s direction.

Mikey knew he should’ve been freaking out. It could be the drugs or he was on delay shock. Something about this whole experience felt like being inside a spy movie. He was mildly famous, sure, but not ultra-rich. There wasn't any specific motivation why he'd be kidnapped for ransom.

Whatever the reason, his brain latched on the idea of him being in a spy film. Somewhere between Jason Bourne and Austin Powers. Hopefully, someone was out there looking for him. At that moment, his first priority was to buy time for whoever his yet-to-be-known rescuer(s) was (were). He looked from one guy to another, holding as still as he could, making sure that his expression was a bored one.

"All right, let’s--Hold on," Joker’s cousin said when a cellphone ring interrupted him. He checked the name on the phone display before walking a few feet away and answering. "Hello, boss. Kelly here. Yes. We’ve got one but--no, he doesn’t--Plan B. I get it. Yes, I do."

Kelly hung up the phone and turned around, staring hard at Mikey like wanted to kick all of his teeth in. "You’re so fucking lucky we don’t have time for knives," he said, pointing at Mikey with his cellphone before dialing a number.

*****

_It was only a minute_ , Renfield thought, studying every part of the room, looking at it through an Operative's eyes, trying to get any kind of hint as to what had happened to Mikey.

Waking up to an empty bed wouldn't have been a big deal if Mikey's side hadn't been _cold_. He'd have dismissed the whole thing it had been for the fact that all three pairs of Mikey's _shoes_ were still here even if their owner wasn't.

After finding not a single clue, he made up his mind: it was time to call Vecchio. Just then, an trilling echoed in the room. Renfield followed the sound until he found a cellphone behind the potted plant by the door. He picked it up, half-hoping that it was Mikey.

"One would think you couldn’t care less about your partner, Renfield" Kelly said.

Much as he wanted to, Renfield stopped himself from asking inane questions. "I didn't know you had invited him for a _stroll_."

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you spend so much you hang around with the wrong kind of people," Kelly hissed. "Let's make this short and sweet: we know you've got it. All we need is for you to bring it to us. In exchange, we'll give you your partner back."

"Unharmed," Renfield said before he could give himself any time to really think about it. "The deal is off if he's roughened up in any way."

"I wouldn't _dream_ of bruising him," Kelly replied, full to the brim with sarcasm.

" _Promise_ ," Renfield insisted. "Or you won't get it."

"I give you my word. Now, in a little while, you're going to get a text with the address and time of the rendezvous." Kelly hung up.

Renfield placed the phone on the coffee table with excessive care. Like it or not, Kelly and whoever was working for him wouldn't keep Mikey safe. The Agency wouldn't care for Mikey--at least, not once Valhalla was on the table ready for the taking.

He paced the room, trying to come up with something, anything really, that could resemble some kind of plan. The problem was he had run out of options. He picked up his cellphone--Vecchio might know what to do--when it slipped from his hands and fell hard on the coffee table. The phone cracked open, spilling some of its parts across the surface of the table.

"I'll be damned," he whispered as a stupidly brilliant idea began to form the longer he stared at the phone. Running into the bedroom, he searched through Mikey's belongings, looking for all of his electronic devices.

Less than two hours later, the other cellphone pinged.

_TAKE THE RED LINE AT CHICAGO. SWITCH TO THE BLUE LINE AT JACKSON. GET OFF AT GRAND. GO TO KINZIE &GREEN. TWO STORY BUILDING W/ BRIGHT GREEN DOOR. TWO KNOCKS, ONE KNOCK, TWO KNOCKS. 9PM OR ELSE._

The digital clock on the nightstand flashed 7:41 in bright red numbers. Renfield checked his two guns, zipped up his coat and stepped out of the room.

It was thundering by the time he left the hotel. The EL was mostly empty save for a couple of students. Renfield stared at the city through the window, wondering how different his life had gotten ever since Vecchio had called him to do this Assignment. He slid a hand in the front pocket of his jeans, checking that the SD card was still there. Rather than call attention to himself, he waited until he was out of the station to start running.

Above him, the sky rumbled.

The rain was colder and sharper than anything he had ever felt. By the time he got to the warehouse, he was soaked down to his underwear. He knocked in the way the text had indicated. The door opened.

"Spread them," the guy who opened the door said, oblivious to the fact that it was still raining.

Renfield extended his arms to the side and stared right ahead as the guy patted him down and relieved him of his guns.

"I'll be picking those up before I Ieave," he told the door guy who grunted in return.

"Sweetheart," Kelly shouted like they were old friends, "so nice of you to show up." He held up a Ruger SR9. "Let him in," he ordered the door guy. "We don't want him to catch a cold now, do we?"

"Where is he?" Renfield said. He'd looked around as discreetly as he could during the patdown. Other than Kelly and the door guy, he counted two other guys: one he didn't know standing by the far end of the room and Johnny "The Worm" Maigot flipping his knife in the air while leaning against the wall. Mikey, gagged and tied up, sat on a chair situated almost all the way to his right.

There was a room to the left, possibly the bathroom and an alcove to the right of the first small room. A group of crates was stacked parallel to the closest corner. It wasn't the best place to take cover, but it would possibly buy them some time.

"Oh, no. Not like this. I want to see Valhalla first," Kelly answered, "Or someone will be shoving a knife _out of a kneecap_."

"Bring him here _first_."

Kelly rolled his eyes. "So little trust." He whistled. "Bring the other guy."

Maigot took out his knife and cut the ropes off around Mikey's thighs, ankles and wrists. He pulled Mikey up, a little rougher than it was necessary.

Renfield focused on Mikey. Though slightly paler than usual and covered with grime, he looked OK. Maigot stopped a few feet away from Kelly and yanked Mikey next to him.

"So," Kelly said, "how about we see what _you've_ brought us?"

Renfield nodded. "Here it is," he said, holding the SD card with his thumb and forefinger. It would fool anyone as long as they kept their distance.

"Give it here," Kelly said.

"Let's trade," Renfield answered, taking small steps towards Kelly and Mikey. He swallowed, focusing on Kelly and getting ready for that moment when Kelly would be close enough to make his move.

*****

Mikey couldn't even begin to figure out what had happened. One minute, Ren had shown up, talked whatever business with Kelly before shooting him in the leg. Then, he'd pulled Mikey behind him as he shot whoever had kidnapped Mikey. They hid behind some crates in the right.

From there, all Mikey knew was the sound of gunfire--and, shit, how _hot_ did Ren looked when he was embracing his action hero within?--and making himself as small of a target as possible.

A loud crash made him almost jump out of their hiding place when a car rammed into the warehouse and picked up the guys who were shooting at him and Ren. Mikey heard someone shouting _let's go!_ and then the screeching of wheels as the car drove away. He waited until silence descended in the room to take a peek over the crates.

"They're gone," Renfield said, reloading his gun before looking at Mikey. "Didn't mean to shove you so hard."

Mikey shook his head. "Forget about it. But you should've told me about this whole thing," he said, waving his hands at Ren and the warehouse. "I mean, a _spy_?"

"I--I couldn't. Erm, tell you." Ren dropped his head until it touched his chin. "The assignment. Things got complicated and then I--"

"Oh, shut up," Mikey said, pulling Ren towards him to give him what Patrick would call a "Disney ending" kiss.

Feeling Ren jumping _away_ from him was the last thing he'd expected. His protest died on his lips when he saw, really saw, the ill-hidden _grimace_ on Ren's face. "What's wrong?" Carefully, he slid his hands up and down Ren's sides, pulling his left one away as soon as Ren hissed when he touched his right shoulder.

"Sorry. I just have to . . ." Ren slid down, leaning against the crates. "Gunshot wound."

Mikey stomped on the panic that was rising inside him. His phone was no good. He searched through Ren's pockets, taking out his cellphone and dialing 911.

The EMTs showed up less than ten minutes later. They worked on Ren fast, tending to his wound with ease.

"Ugh, I _hate_ patch ups," one EMT said, taking off his bloodied latex gloves and chucking them into a red plastic bag. He pulled his hair into a ponytail and waited for the other EMT to finish taking Ren’s vitals.

"Such a baby," the petite woman with short brown hair said. She unwrapped the blood pressure cuff from around Ren’s arm. "No wonder you almost fainted when you saw me debone that chicken last Sunday."

Mikey stared at Ren. Pale-faced and unconscious, he looked more like a doll than a person. "Wait for me!" he said when the EMTs covered Ren's face with an oxygen mask and wheeled him into the ambulance.

"Sorry, dude," Ponytail said. "There’s no place for you in here." He shrugged.

"Don’t mind him," the woman said, rolling her eyes at her coworker. "You’re coming with us."

"Are you _crazy_?" Ponytail gave the woman a pointed look.

Arching one eyebrow, the woman poked at Ponytail’s chest. "Have _you_ forgotten who outranks you here?" Though nearly a foot shorter than anyone around her, the woman looked at Ponytail like she could break him in two while wearing heels. "We can make more than enough space if you ride in the front with Buxley. _Be nice_."

Thankfully, her face had softened by the time she looked back in Mikey’s direction. "Hop on the boat, mister," she said, jerking her left thumb in the direction of the ambulance.

Mikey frowned. "Um, you mean ‘hop on the bus’, right?"

The woman waved her hands in the air. "Bus, boat, rickshaw. Whatever. If you want to catch a ride out of here though . . ."

Not needing to be invited a _third_ time to ride in the ambulance, Mikey mumbled an "OK" before taking a hold of the sides of the van.

He had already placed one foot on the floor of the ambulance when he felt the now-familiar sting on his left shoulder. "Oh, fuck y--" He fell on his right side. The last image in his mind was of the woman saying _I’m sorry_ while holding a small syringe in her hand and of Ponytail waving good-bye.

*****

Renfield woke up from a dream in which his parachute wouldn’t open as he free fell off the sky.

"Finally, Sleeping Beauty opens his eyes."

Moving his head slowly to the side, Renfield scowled at Vecchio. "Water," he whispered.

Vecchio slid his phone inside his jacket. He took the few steps needed to reach the water pitcher. "Here you go," he said as he offered a glass of water to Renfield with a bendable straw in it.

Renfield stretched out his left hand, pausing for a second when he saw the IV on it, and had a few sips. He nodded when his throat felt less sandpaper-y. "Status completed," he mumbled after leaning back on the bed.

"You don’t say," Vecchio replied in a slightly mocking tone. "It’s true that we got the missing part of Valhalla back. The SD card was analyzed and destroyed. You’re going to end up with a not-so-gruesome bullet wound scar and a neat little bonus for completing the Assignment."

"But?" Renfield closed his eyes. Working for the Agency was all about looking at both sides of the coin.

"There’s still the issue of who’s the mole as well as the theory that you were going to trade what you’d been assigned to recover in order to deliver your new boyfriend to safety."

At this, Renfield sat up in one pain-filled moment. "That’s not--I’m not a traitor! I wasn’t going to do that!"

"Well," Vecchio said impossibly calm, "you’re lucky enough to have the facts back you up. We found Valhalla inside the subject’s jacket, just like you had told me."

Renfield frowned. The last thing he’d want was for his reputation within the Agency to be seen as ‘flexible’. "So why are you--?"

Vecchio got up and almost shoved his index finger in Renfield’s face. "Because even though it was all an act, you still went in to face Kelly and his cronies _without_ using the fucking backup I’d sent you! Do you have any idea of how bad things would’ve gone if you had gotten your brains splattered by Kelly or Maigot or whoever after they deliver Valhalla to the Bolts? It was stupid and extremely reckless, Turnbull! "

"I _had_ to make them think I was going to betray the Agency," Renfield spat. "And what better way than to show up holding a SD card that, from far away, looks _scarily similar to the one that had Valhalla in it?_ Besides, I wanted to see if there was any more intel on who's the mole." It wasn’t a great defense, but there was nothing else he could say. He didn’t look at Vecchio, though he could hear him pacing from his bed to the window.

"I trust you, Turnbull. I would’ve been the first one to object your Assignment if I didn’t believe in you." Vecchio sighed. "But I wish to Saint Adrian that you could’ve let me in on your plan. Dr. Kuzma’s team wants to sit down with you. Nothing, erm, severe." He walked to the bed and gave him a long look. "Just remember to keep your facts straight."

Though it made him feel embarrassed, he couldn’t not ask. "Vecchio? Is Mik--is the subject OK?"

Standing by the door, Vecchio looked over at Renfield sideways before answering. "He’s in one piece according to what Frannie told me. Gotta go now, Irene will kill me if I don’t make it to dinner. Take care, Turnbull."

Renfield didn’t even know what to feel anymore. Vecchio’s veiled disappointment in him stung. He’d also have to deal with facing Dr. Kuzma and make sure that everyone understood he had never had any intention of going rogue.

As for Mikey Way, it’d be best to leave it in the past. The likelihood that they would see each other again was nil. Turning his head toward the window, he exhaled and wondered what was so good about today.

*****

A loud ringing pulled Mikey away from sleep. Not opening his eyes (his head was aching like he had the mother of all hangovers), he stretched out his right hand, sliding it on the nightstand until he could pick up the receiver.

"’lo?"

"Mikey? Mikey?" Bob sounded worried.

"Yeah."

"Dude, open up. Me and Frank are right outside your door."

"What?" Mikey flipped over to his back. "You’re--?"

"Right outside, you fucker. Come on and open the door before we have to break it in."

"Um," Mikey sat up in bed. The room was spinning. "Give me a minute. I’m not--"

"All right," Bob said in a tight voice, "but hurry up. You’ve given us a huge scare."

Mikey hmmed before taking a few seconds to hang up. He swung his feet over to the floor, taking a moment to realize that he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, before trying to get up and moving. His whole body ached like he'd been trying out for a triathlon.

By the time he opened the door, he was breaking a sweat.

"You’re _such_ a motherfucker," Frank said, giving Mikey a tackle hug hard enough to make them both fall.

Bob closed the door behind him. "Where the _fuck_ have you been?" He narrowed his eyes. "Aren’t those the clothes you wore to the concert?"

"I, um." Mikey shrugged. They were throwing way too many questions at him this early in the day. "I’m sorry. I--" Just when he was about to say "I overslept", a flood of memories--the guns, the concert, Ren--of everything that had happened rushed forward. Rolling over to his side, Mikey inhaled, enjoying the soft carpeting.

When it became obvious that Mikey was no good, Bob took charge. "OK, this is what we’re going to do: Mikey go take a shower. It’ll wake you up and/or keeping from reeking. Frank, go with him ‘cause I don’t want him to crack his head open in the tub. I’m going to order us some coffee and food and then, you, Mikeyway, are going to tell us what happened after you left the club."

"Could you order me an omelet with a side of bacon? I need to have something comforting for breakfast."

"At 1 A.M.?" Frank grimaced. Mikey figured that was more a "down with bacon" than "eating breakfast this late?" face.

"That’s the time?"

"Uh huh," Bob said as he picked up the room service menu. "Something went _very_ wrong last night."

One hour later, cleaned up and with a full stomach, Mikey was on his second cup of coffee. Having finished telling them what he could remember (not much after the 911 people showed up), Frank and Bob frowned at him in unison.

"Wow, Mikey. You’re, like, the only person I know to have gotten mistaken for a spy. This shit is better than _Alias_." Frank stirred sugar in his cup. He stared at Mikey, possibly coming up with all kinds of questions.

"Do you want to go to the police?" Bob was always the voice of reason. Other than Ray, but Toro had been fighting off a cold bad enough to keep him incommunicado.

Mikey put down his half-empty cup of coffee and weighted his options. "I dunno. What would I tell the cops? Would they even _believe_ me?"

Frank’s shrug wasn't reassuring. "I met the guy and I can barely believe you. Do we even know if his name is real? I mean, he’s a _spy_."

Bob cracked his knuckles and hmmed. Mikey's stomach dropped. That was the international "Bob is about to tell you something that you don't want to hear but must for your own good" signal. He locked eyes with Bob, ready to face whatever his friend was about to tell him.

The fact that Frank sat quietly freaked Mikey out a little.

"I think, um. I think you've got to let this whole thing be. Move on with your life," Bob said, the earnestness in his blue eyes irritated Mikey a little. "I mean, you can't--you don't even know _where_ he is."

"Yes, I know." Mikey crossed his arms. "But that doesn't mean I have to be at peace with it. For a while at least. Anyways, how did you guys know something was wrong?"

Bob and Frank exchanged a look. "Honestly?" Frank made an apologetic face. "It started with Gerard. You told him you were going to email him, but never did."

"At first, we told him to chill. That you had, um, probably gotten lucky on your date with Ren?" Bob looked remorseful as well. "But when we came by the hotel, it was like no one had seen you come in--"

Frank interrupted. "And there was the 'do not disturb' sign on the door. This hotel takes that sign _way_ too seriously."

"We thought you had gone, um, to Ren's hotel? But we didn't know where that was so, we kept coming back here every few hours, trying to see if we could catch you walking in or out or whatever."

"Wow, you guys would be the most ineffectual secret agents ever," Mikey said in monotone.

"Why? Because we wouldn't be super-sneaky?" Frank scoffed. "Maybe we'd be the _best_ because we know how to blend in, fucker."

"Frank?"

"What?"

"Shut up," Bob said, sliding his phone across the table and ignoring the middle finger Frank flipped at him. "Mikey, call Gerard."

"Excuse me, guys." Mikey picked up the phone and walked to the bedroom. He hoped his brother wouldn't freak out much.

*****

Easy would've been walking into Warfield's lair and emerge without a scratch. Simple would've been trying to figure out the connection between Kelly and Maigot's bosses.

What Renfield had to face during most of his inactive time was neither. Having to deal with Dr. Kuzma's creepy interest on the why and the how of Renfield's involvement with the Valhalla Assignment; brushing off his coworkers' suspicious glares; seeing Vecchio's dissatisfaction on a daily basis; the memories of Mikey and of what they had . . . It started to set him off into a spin until he was slightly paranoid all the time.

A few weeks after the Assignment, Renfield sat by the big window in the cafeteria and stared at the trees. Now deep into the fall season, the landscape had started to grow bare as the trees' leaves fluttered to the ground.

"Funny to think that spring is happening somewhere else, huh?" Francesca said after laying down her tray and sitting down. "I'm fortunate enough that every season is _my_ season. You know, being able to wear almost any color?"

Not wanting to appear rude to one of the few people (other than Mort and Besbriss) who wouldn't look at him with wariness, Renfield nodded. That seemed to be all the encouragement she needed.

"Except any of the neon ones. Oh, and ecru. They make me look washed out, like I've been partying it up in dark clubs instead of being undercover as an Italian socialite." Francesca smiled at what had to be a pleasant memory. "Anyways, how've you been, Turnbull?"

"F-fine?" He sipped some of his tea.

Francesca smiled at him. "I've _heard_ that your leash is coming off soon. I just don't know _why_."

Renfield choked upon hearing this. He took a few seconds to compose himself. "I'd love to be on active duty again," he said, feeling somewhat surprised that what he'd just said was true. Even after the Valhalla mess, he couldn't wait to get a new Assignment. "Well, it wouldn't be _too_ active. My shoulder hasn't finished healing. I--"

"He was _cutie_ , Turnbull. You should go find him." She scooped up a spoonful of her ice cream.

"I'm sorry?" Cursing the fierce heat on his face, which signaled a furious blush, Renfield pushed his seat back. He didn't have to hear this.

"Oh no, Turnbull. You're staying put." Francesca held on to Renfield's right wrist hard enough to make it uncomfortable. "You might think you're above it. You might even think you're all alone. I'm here to tell you that you're wrong on both accounts. Please, stay."

"Let go of me, Francesca."

"Stay?" Francesca batted her eyes coquettishly. Her grip remained solid.

His mouth a flat line, Renfield nodded and pushed his seat forward.

"Good," she said, finally letting go of him. "Now, I know these have been difficult weeks. But, you've pulled through the gossip and your sessions with Dr. Kuzma . . ."

"What do you know about that?" Renfield rubbed his wrist. Francesca had _sharp_ nails.

"Not much? My brother, he--he's worried about you." Francesca looked at him like she was confessing a deep dark secret. "We, all of us who care about you, have been worried. Personally, I think it's that you went on some crazy mission and met someone with whom you clicked and then things went a little, um, _off-center_. But now it's almost like you're hiding from him, from the entire world and from yourself. I'm not saying you've got to be the life of the _fiesta_ , Turnbull. Just that, it's time for you to be Spring instead of Fall. You know what I mean?"

"I think I get the gist of what you're saying," Renfield said. "I don't think he'd want to see me though. Not after the crazy reveal about what I really do."

Francesca gave him a puzzled look as she sprinkled salt on her salad. "Are you _kidding_ me? Your reunion would be like something out of the _Spy of My Heart_ series. The main storyline is about this woman named Brooke who's a secretary _and_ a secret heiress and her romance with Angelo, a mysterious spy. Anyway, Brooke's roommate is a gay guy named Hitch whose on-and-off boyfriend is Angelo's cousin." Francesca had some water before continuing. "You know, sometimes I read the books to hear more about Hitch and his boyfriend's adventures than Brooke and Angelo's. I wish someone would write a book about them."

"You're certainly inspired, Francesca. Maybe you should write it," Renfield said, his mind still spinning at what he had just heard.

"Oh, you're sweet." Francesca smiled. "But that's not the point. Basically, what I mean is that you should go out there. Carpal Tunnel and all that!"

Momentarily perplexed at Francesca's latest words, Renfield began to look at all the angles, trying to figure out a way to reconnect with the one guy he hadn't stopped thinking about.

*****

The days went too fast for Mikey's liking. Between Gerard--who had kicked off an overprotective vibe that had extended to the usually calm and collected Ray--and wrapping up the NYC apartment business (exceptionally manageable since Alicia had long moved out and taken her stuff with her), Mikey fooled himself into thinking that he had gotten over Ren.

The only casualty of his time with him was losing his leather jacket--something he didn't notice until he'd started to pack one last time before he left for L.A. one final time. The temperature had begun to grow colder; his leather jacket wasn't insulated enough.

He bought a house on his birthday. What cinched the deal was its proximity to Gerard's (exactly two blocks): close enough that he could walk to it if he wanted to, but far to feel like he was on his own.

Upon waking, Mikey would sit by his bedroom window and sip coffee while petting Bunny Marie. Piglet and Puddles slept on the patch of sunlight that filtered into the room at an angle.

In the afternoons, he'd spend some time writing the Batman comic that was due to come out in late October. Every so often, Lindsey would show up and take him to Michael's where they'd occasionally spend a ridiculous amount of money buying arts and crafts stuff.

He'd still go out, though not as much as he used to, and meet with friends, have dinner at Gerard and Lindsey's or at his own house. Dating in L.A. was a little driving through a minefield while wearing a blindfold. From what he could see, the happiest couples were those that had met _elsewhere_.

At one point, everyone around him seemed to be getting ready to welcome their own babies. Even Pete (of all people)! He was happy for all of them, couldn't wait to spoil his future niece or nephew.

Sometimes, he wondered about Ren.

He thought he'd done a good job at keeping his feelings for Ren well-hidden until the day Patrick Stump called.

"So," Patrick said in a hushed voice, "I think I know someone who can help you."

Mikey stopped scratching Puddles' head. "What are you talking about?"

"Listen, I'm here in Cali. If you want to, I'm thinking I can stay a few more days."

"To do what exactly?" He cringed a little at the bite in his voice.

"Help you on your scavenger hunt." Patrick’s yawn echoed as the silence went on.

"What?"

"I heard it from Pete who heard it from Ray Toro who heard it from Bob. You know, the _incident_ in Illinois."

"Inci--oh!" Mikey shuddered when the realization hit him. Truth was, he'd thought of looking for Ren. But, lacking the contacts as well as the most basic information private investigators needed, he'd pushed that idea to the far ends of his mind.

"Like I said, this person can totally help you." Patrick's confidence was impressive.

No matter what his head said, a spark of hope flared up inside Mikey. "Uh, yeah. Like, call me when you’re here. Um, bye."

Hanging up before he could hear Patrick’s reply, Mikey sat on his sofa, curling over until his head was parallel with his knees. Taking deep lungfuls of air, he tried to balance the spike of elation at maybe finding Ren with the possibility of not succeeding at all.

Patrick called him up two days later and gave him some weird instructions involving getting a certain amount of money in cash. Had it been _anyone else_ other than the My Chem guys or Patrick, Mikey wouldn't have gone along with it.

"OK," Patrick said as they pulled up to an apartment complex in San Martin the following day, "Mac is very sweet, but a little wary of strangers." He turned the engine off and pulled the key from the ignition. "You brought the money, right?"

Mikey patted the brown bag by his side. "Five thousand dollars in cash. It felt like I was robing the bank." He gripped the bag before opening the car door.

"Mac's specific about those kinds of things." Patrick stepped out of his car and led the way to the main entrance.

Silently walking alongside Patrick, Mikey made an agreement with himself: if this Mac person couldn't find Ren, he'd let the matter rest and move on. They stopped in front of an apartment that had the Apple logo next to the doorbell.

The door opened. Patrick stepped inside. It wasn't until Mikey followed that he had the feeling this was some elaborate prank. Patrick looked relaxed though, so Mikey decided to stay put unless things got really weird.

"Mikey," Patrick gestured at the young woman with dark brown hair and purple streaks, "this is Mac. Computer genius, devious hacker, basically the kind of person you want to keep on their good side."

At this, Mac shook her head sideways. "Let’s leave it at me knowing my way around codes, OK?" she told Patrick before turning back to Mikey, her demeanor growing somewhat quiet. She extended her hand. "Hi, I’m a fan. But I’m also a poorish student. I hear you need my help finding someone?"

Mikey gave her a side smile. "Mikey Way, nice to meet you. I--I’ve got your money here."

"OK," she said walking over to a desk with a huge monitor. "What kind of info do you have?"

"Um, a name?" Mikey cringed. He knew so little about Ren. Patrick coughed and Mikey shook himself out of his daydream. "Um, Renfield. Renfield Boucher."

Mac faced her monitor and started to type. "Not local, is he?"

"Sounded French to me." Mikey chewed on a hangnail.

"No luck," Mac said.

"Maybe he's Canadian?" Patrick's cellphone was buzzing. "Oh, it's Pete! Hey, dude, what's up?" He walked off to the dining room.

A handful of screens popped up on the screen within seconds of each other. Eventually the computer beeped. "Damn," Mac said as she started typing again. Two tries later, she leaned back.

"No luck, huh?" Patrick called out from the sofa.

"Do you have anything else. Like, date of birth, driver’s license number, passport . . .?" Mac tapped her fingers against her computer's keyboard. The sound that tap-tap-tap made was slightly hypnotic.

Mikey shook his head no, feeling like a bigger fool with each passing second. "We . . . I never had any time to, like, see who he was. Check his ID. That kind of thing." _Especially with his tongue half way down my throat_ , he thought, as his stomach did a happy flip at the memory of his last makeout session with Ren. He snapped his fingers. "What about his phone number? It’s disconnected, but you could, I don’t know, trace him or something, right?"

"Tell you what," Mac said. "I’m going to see if I can burrow a little deeper, but I work better without an audience. Let me get your number, I’ll call you as soon as I find anything at all."

Mikey tried not to slump too much on the ride back to his house.

"Mac is the best at what she does, Mikey," Patrick said, flicking the turning signal on when they drove away.

It was Wednesday of the following week and Mikey had just finished his session with Dr. Allen. They had talked about hopes vs. expectations. The last thing in his mind for once--since hanging out with Patrick--was Mac's search for a spy.

"Do you mind meeting me at the small Mexican taqueria on Franklin and Western? I have news."

"You're talking about El Taco Loco?"

"Yeah, that's the one!" Mac said excitedly.

Mikey nodded to no one. "I’ll be there in thirty."

He tried not to speed on the way.

"You said you have news?" he asked after taking a seat.

Mac nodded slowly. "More like bad news and not-so-bad news though."

Mikey frowned. "I don’t understand."

"The bad news is that I went everywhere, tapped into all of the programs I can think of and there was nothing at all. I mean, no birth record, no passport, nothing. It was as if that Renfield guy didn’t exist."

"Which is not possible."

Mac continued. "I even talked to my friend Veronica. She’s a kickass detective, will most probably end up in the FBI or some kind of profiling thing."

"And?"

"Nothing." Mac held her hands up. "Normally, this would be the part where I’d suggest leaving things alone."

"But?"

"I took a close look at the phone number and there’s something about the sequence that looks kinda weird. The problem is that none of my computers have the juice I need to dig in. So, I called Veronica and, if she manages to get a hold of Duncan, I could, hypothetically-speaking, work my computer magic. Of course, if and when Veronica talks to Duncan, I’ll be her coffee slave for the rest of the year and the next."

"So, why are you doing this?"

"Call me curious, Mikey, that’s all. Plus, that’ll be an extra 5 grand. Mama needs a new laptop."

*****

Renfield stared at the page one more time. Francesca, motivated by his words that fateful autumn day, had written a story. Though not sure as to how it happened, she'd roped Renfield into editing her manuscript. The simple yet heartfelt story about an US Marshall who falls for a mechanic, Renfield thought that the more interesting angle was the fact that the romance happened between two women.

Francesca had a good ear for dialogue but some her sentences were overtly florid. With the deadline for submission only a week away, she had told him she'd go by his apartment to pick up his notes sometime in the early evening.

He'd barely finished his annotations for a rather superficial sequence between the mechanic and the evil (creepy) owner of the gas station when the doorbell rang.

It was only 2 P.M. Francesca's plane wouldn't arrive until after 4. He put down the manuscript and picked up his gun, hiding it on his back, by placing it in the waistband of his jeans. There wasn't anyone he'd been expecting to see on a Saturday afternoon.

"Coming," he yelled as he walked down the stairs. He opened the door, ready to defend himself if necessary.

Instead of a hardened thug, the person in front of him was none other than Mikey Way.

"Goodness gracious!" Renfield said, quelling the urge to close the door and/or faint. He was grateful he'd changed out of his pajamas and into a plain white t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

"Holy shit!" Mikey took his sunglasses off and stared open-mouthed at him.

"What? How did you--?"

Mikey sucked in his teeth. "Find you? Hmm, let's say you're not the only one with _nosy_ friends. Can I come in? I've travelled, well, actually _not_ that far. I mean, I thought all spies lived in super-cool, high class lofts in Western Europe."

"Sorry to be a letdown," Renfield said, stepping to the side, his nerves settling down after the initial shock. "Come into my top-secret lair."

"It has a very home-y vibe," Mikey said, winking as he unwound his scarf and took off his coat and placing them on the coatrack. "Not what I imagined when I thought of where you lived."

"You said something about "nosy friends"?" Despite the fact that the idea of Mikey thinking about him shot a thrill up his body, he need to clear up some things first.

"They're not like _your_ friends, Ren." Mikey stopped and turned around. "Your name _is_ Ren, correct? Things get mixed up with covert identities and hideouts . . ."

Renfield wished he could do a Vecchio-style roll of his eyes. "Yes, it's my name. And I'd appreciate it you stop it with the spy jokes."

"See, I _get_ why you had to keep things hush-hush. What I don't know is if you were playing me from the moment you helped me at El Taco Loco." Mikey's gaze went from 'aloof' to 'iceberg-cold'. He resumed his walk, stopping briefly in front of a painting of an owl before taking a seat in the living room.

"You remember?" Renfield didn't make any effort to hide his worry. He sat down only to straighten up when jabbed by the butt of his gun. "Excuse me," he said, sliding the gun out and placing it on the table. "It's got the safety on," he hastened to add when Mikey arched an eyebrow. A few seconds later, he got up and put it inside a kitchen drawer. "Sorry."

Mikey scratched his ear. "Guns don't really scare me. I'm a really good shot, actually. Back to what we were talking about: I wouldn't have thought about it except that I've been there a lot of times since moving West. And, yeah, I kept having this feeling of not-quite-déjà vu. When the "incident" happened, I was in too much of a shock to piece things together. I guess my mind didn't want me to forget it." His eyes--still closed off--searched Renfield's face. "You haven't answered my question.

"No, I didn't "play" you as you put it. Our interlude was an accident, Mikey." Renfield ran a hand through his short hair.

"A _happy_ accident?" Mikey wiggled his eyebrows.

"Yes. I'd definitely say so," Renfield answered. He hoped he wasn't imagining the thaw in Mikey's stare. "I understand if--" Soon, he found himself with a lap full of Mikey. "It doesn't--mmm--you don't mind?" He managed to say in between kisses.

"I think we should give this a shot if you're willing." Mikey bit Renfield's lip, worrying it a little and licking the sting away. "Besides,I've got leverage. I mean, some of my people know what's up. Including Pete Wentz. That guy's like the internet made flesh and blood."

Renfield's loyaty to the Agency aside, he'd made up his mind to _Carpal Tunnel_ like Francesca had advised him that afternoon he'd been so moody. For now, he answered each of Mikey's fierce kisses with passionate ones of his own. Now was the time to see what the future held for the both of them.

"Let's do it," Renfield said and pulled Mikey closer.

THE END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Par Avion Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/234190) by [Chibifukurou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibifukurou/pseuds/Chibifukurou)
  * [Art for "Par Avion"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638692) by [akamine_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan)




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